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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PRU300 

1872 

.N3 


J 


es 

£ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00023293302 


» 


the 

Poetical  Works 


ROBERT  BURNS 


WITH  ILL  US  IRA  LIONS. 

?&Z  DO 

i%n 

f\l  *2 

.  I  1  — •> 


NEW  YORK  i 

JAMES  MILLER,  647  BROADWAY. 
1872. 


Anderson  &  Ramsay,  Printers, 

28  Frankfort  St N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Address  of  Beelzebub  ....  248 
Address  spoken  by  Miss 

Fontenelle .  594 

Address  to  Edinburgh ....  302 
Address  to  Mr.  William 

Tytler .  342 

Address  to  the  Deil . 149 

Address  to  the  Shade  of 

Thomson . 457 

Address  to  the  Toothache..  386 
Address  to  the  Unco 

Guid .  221 

Address  to  the  Woodlark. .  580 
Adown  winding  Nith  1  did 

wander .  517 

Ae  fond  Kiss .  463 

American  War .  313 

Andrew  Turner . .623 

Anna,  thy  Charms .  539 

Answer  t  >  an  Invitation. . .  620 
Apology  to  Mr.  Riddel  for 
a  Rudeness  offered  his 

Wile .  526 

As  I  was  a-wandcring .  646 

Auld  Mare  Maggie . 202 

Auld  Lang  Syne .  369 

Auld  Man .  556 

Auld  Rob  Morris . 493 

Awa’,  Whigs,  awa’1 .  640 

Ballads  on  Mr.  Heron’s 

Election .  568 

Banks  of  Cree .  543 


PAGE 


Banks  of  Boon .  483 

Banks  of  Nith . 424 

Bannockburn . 523 

Bannocks  o’  Barley .  665 

Bard’s  Epitaph .  265 

Battle  of  Sheriff-Muir .  419 

Behold  the  Hour  ! .  521 

Belles  of  Mauchline .  81 

Bess  and  her  Spinning- 

Wheel .  477 

Birks  of  Aberfeldy .  329 

Blithe  hae  1  been  on  yon 

Hill .  509 

Blithe  was  She . 337 

Blooming  Nelly .  422 

Blue-eyed  Lassie .  407 

Bonnie  Doon .  306 

Bonnie  Lass  of  Albany .  335 

Bonnie  Lass  o’  Balloch- 

myle .  273 

Bonny  Ann .  418 

Bonny  Jean . 511 

Bonny  Lesley .  468 

Bonny  Peggy  Alison .  352 

Bonny  wee  Thing .  459 

Book-worms,  The  .  615 

Braes  o’  Ballochmyle .  137 

Brigs  of  Ayr .  288 

Bruce  to  his  Men  at  Ban¬ 
nockburn .  520,  523 

Burns  to  the  Gudewife  of 

Wauchope-House .  308 

By  Allan  Stream  I  chanced 
to  rove . .  •  613 


iv  CONTENTS. 

\ 

PAGE 

PAGE 

Ca’  the  Ewes  to  the  Knowes 

642 

Elegy  on  Miss  Burnett  . .  . 

446 

Ca’  the  Yowes  to  the 

Elegy  on  Peg  Nicholson. . . 

426 

Knowes . 

550 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Pres- 

Caledonia . 

607 

ident  Dundas . 

344 

Calf,  The . 

278 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Rob- 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus, 

eyt  Ruisseaux . 

80 

my  Katy  ‘i . 

464 

Elegy  on  the  Year  1788. . . . 

373 

Cardin  o’  ’t,  The . 

661 

Eliza . 

247 

Carle  of  Kellyburn  Braes, 

Epigram .  627, 

629 

The . 

655 

Epigram  on  a  hen-pecked 

Carles  of  Dysart,  The . 

654 

Country  Squire ....  612, 

613 

Castle  Gordon . 

334 

Epigrams,  Miscellaneous 

Chevalier’s  Lament . 

254 

.  323,  612,  627, 

632 

Come  let  me  take  thee  to 

Epigrams  on  Miss  Lewars. 

605 

my  Breast . 

518 

Epistle  from  Esopus  to 

Coming  through  the  Rye . . 

658 

Maria . 

528 

Contented  wi’  Little . 

563  ' 

Epistle  to  a  Young 

Cotter’s  Saturday  Night 

141 

Friend . 

239 

Could  Aught  of  Song . 

536 

Epistle  to  Davie .  83,  135 

Country  Lassie . 

479 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Blacklock. .. 

396 

Craigieburn  Wood. ...  4G9, 

471 

Epistle  to  Hugh  Parker. ... 

355 

Crowdie . 

672 

Epistle  to  James  Smith. ... 

169 

Cure  for  all  Care . 

77 

Epistle  to  John  Goudie  of 

Kilmarnock . 

103 

Epistles  to  John  Lapraik  : 

Dainty  Davie . 

519 

.  95,  99, 

119 

Day  returns,  The . 

363 

Epistle  to  John  Rankine. . 

73 

Dean  of  Faculty,  The . 

597 

Epistle  to  Major  Logan .... 

299 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook 

88 

Epistles  to  Mr.  Graham  of 

Death  and  dying  Words  of 

Fintry .  364,  428,  454, 

462 

poor  Mailie . 

57 

Epistles  to  the  Rev.  John 

Dedication  to  Gavin  Ham- 

M’Math . 

121 

ilton.  Esq . 

266 

Epistle  to  William  Simpson  108 

Deil’s  awa’  wi’  the  Excise- 

Epitaph  for  a  Dog . 

626 

man . . . 

467 

Epitaph  for  Gavin  Hamil- 

Delia . 

382 

ton . . . 

611 

Despondency,  an  Ode . 

233 

Epitaph  for  Robert  Aiken, 

Down  the  Burn,  Davie .... 

521 

Esq . 

611 

Dream,  A . 

250 

Epitaph  on  a  celebrated 

Duke  of  Queonsberry,  The 

592 

ruling  Elder . 

611 

Dumfries  Volunteers,  The 

577 

Epitaph  on  a  hen-pecked 

Duncan  Gray . 

494 

Country  Squire . 

612 

Epitaph  on  Captain  Grose. 

401 

Epitaph  on  Holy  Willie. .. 

118 

Earl  of  Galloway,  The . 

631 

Epitaph  on  Mr.  Gabriel 

Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer. . . 

195 

Richardson . 

626 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew 

Excellent  new  Song,  an. . . 

602 

Henderson . 

433 

Excisemen  Universal . 

625 

CONTENTS.  v 


PAGE 

Expostulation  on  a  Rebuke 
administered  by  Mrs. 

Lawrie . . . 

Extemporaneous  Grace  on 

a  Haggis . 

Extempore  in  tlie  Court  of 

Session . 

Extempore  on  some  Com¬ 
memorations  of  Thom¬ 
son  . 

Extempore  to  Captain  Rid¬ 
del  on  returning  a  News¬ 
paper  . 


Fair  Eliza .  480 

Fairest  Maid  on  Devon 

Banks .  606 

Farewell,  The .  275 

Farewell,  thou  Stream  that 

winding  Hows .  560 

Farewell  to  Clarinda .  346 

Farewell  to  the  Brethren  of 

St.  James’s  Lodge .  270 

Fete  Champetre .  361 

First  Psalm . 71 

First  six  Verses  of  the 

Nineteenth  Psalm .  72 

First  when  Maggy  was  my 

Care .  639 

Five  Carlines .  404 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton..  243 
For  a’  that  and  a’  that,  565,  643 
Forlorn,  my  Love,  no  Com¬ 
fort  near .  585 

Frae  the  Friends  and  Land 

I  love . 471 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  for 
Washington’s  Birthday..  543 
From  Burns's  last  Letter  to 
Clarinda .  544 


Gala  Water . 498 

Gallant  Weaver,  The .  486 

Gane  is  the  Day .  648 

Gardener  wi’  his  Paidle. . .  416 
Gloomy  Night  is  gathering 
fast . ,....  287 


302 

616 

318 

490 

375 


PAGE 


Graces  before  Meat .  615 

Green  grow  the  Rashes ....  76 

Gudewife  of  Wauchope- 
House  to  Burns . 307 


Had  I  a  Cave .  514 

Halloween .  142 

Handsome  Nell .  41 

Here’s  a  Health  to  them 

that’s  awa’ .  495 

Here’s  to  thy  Health,  my 

bonny  Lass . 538 

Hey  for  a  Lass  wi’  a  Tocher  600 

Highland  Harry .  417 

Highland  Laddie,  The ....  662 

Highland  Lassie .  244 

Highland  Mary . 48b 

Highland  Widow’s  La¬ 
ment,  The .  666 

Holy  Fair .  254 

Holy  Willie’s  Prayer.  . .  115 
How  can  I  be  blithe  and 

glad  ? .  474 

How  cruel  are  the  Parents !  583 

Howlet  Face . 622 

How  long  and  dreary  is 

the  Night ! .  553 

Humble  Petition  of  Bruar 
Water .  330 

I  am  my  Mammy’s  ae 

Bairn . 634 

I  do  confess  thou  art  sae 

fair .  474 

I  dreamed  I  lay .  42 

I  hae  a  Wife  o’  my  ain. ...  368 
I’ll  aye  ca’  in  by  yon  Town  664 

I  love  my  Jean .  356 

Impromptu .  627 


Inscription  for  an  Altar  to 

Independence .  591 

Inscription  for  the  Grave 

of  Fergusson .  312 

Inscription  on  the  Tomb¬ 
stone  of  William  Burness  68 

Inventory,  The . 224 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonny 
Face .  648 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


It  was  a’  for  our  rightfu’ 

King .  665 

It  was  the  charming  Month 
of  May .  558 

Jamie,  come  try  me .  639 

Jessy .  601 

Jockey’s  ta’en  the  parting 

'Kiss .  640 

Jocky  fou  and  Jenny  fain..  657 

John  Anderson .  419 

John  Barleycorn .  61 

John  Bushby’s  Lamenta¬ 
tion .  674 

John  Dove .  154 

Jolly  Beggars .  144 

Kenmure ’s  on  and  avva’ . .  652 
Kindness  shown  in  the 

Highlands .  323 

Kirk’s  Alarm .  3«7 

Laddies  by  the  Banks  o’ 

Kith . :  403 

Lady  Mary  Ann .  651 

Lady  Onlie . 636 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of 

Glencairn .  450 

Lament  occasioned  by  the 
unfortunate  Issue  of  a 

Friends  Amour .  230 

Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots  on  the  approach  of 

Spi'ing .  448 

Lass  of  Ecclefechan,  The.  660 
Lass  that  made  the  Bed  to 

me,  The .  661 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white 

Locks .  559 

Last  May  a  braw  Wooer. . .  586 
Last  Time  I  came  o’er  the 

Moor . 508 

Lazy  Mist,  The . .  368 

Lea-Rig,  The .  492 

Let  not  Woman  e’er  com¬ 
plain . 554 


PAGE 


Letter  to  James  Tennant 

of  Glenconner .  883 

Lines  on  meeting  with  Ba¬ 
sil,  Lord  Daer .  297 

Lines  to  Sir  John  White- 

foord . 453 

Lines  written  in  Friars’ 

Carse  Hermitage .  371 

Lines  written  on  a  Bank- 

Note  .  276 

Logan  Braes . 510 

Lord  Gregory .  500 

Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee  ?  534 

Lovely  Davies .  458 

Lovely  Polly  Stewart .  536 

Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness.  530 
Lover’s  Morning  Salute  to 
his  Mistress .  554 


Macpherson’s  Farewell. . . .  347 
Man  was  made  to  mourn . .  138 
Mark  yonder  Pomp  of  cost¬ 
ly  Fashion . 584 

Mary  Morrison .  64 

Meg  o’  the  Mill .  506 

Meikle  thinks  my  Love. . .  472 
Miscellaneous  Verses ....  53-78 
Monody  on  a  Lady  famed 

for  her  Caprice .  526 

Montgomery’s  Peggy .  66 

Mrs.  Fergusson’s  Lament 
for  the  Death  of  her  Son  367 
Musing  on  the  roaring 

Ocean .  351 

My  bonny  Mary .  370 

My  Chloris,  mark  how 

green  the  Groves .  557 

My  Collier  Laddie .  649 

My  Father  was  a  Farmer . .  54 

My  Heart  is  a-breaking, 

dear  Tittie  1 . 424 

My  Heart’s  in  the  High¬ 
lands .  423 

My  Hoggie .  637 

My  Lady’s  Gown,  there’s 

Gairs  upon’t .  539 

My  Lovely  Nancy . 412 

My  Nannie,  0 .  43 


CONTENTS. 


vii 


PAGE 


PAGE 


INI  5T  Nannie  ’s  ’awa .  466 

My  Peggy’s  Face .  341 

My  Spouse  Nancy . 525 

My  Wife’s  a  winsome  wee 
Thing .  487 


Nithsdale’s  welcome  Hame  478 
Note  to  Gavin  Hamilton..  238 
Now  Spring  has  clad  the 
Grove  in  Green .  589 


O  aye  my  Wife  she  dang 

me .  669 

O  bonny  was  yon  rosy 

Brier . 591 

O  for  ane-and-twentv,  Tam  476 

O  guid  Ale  comes .  670 

O  Lassie,  art  thou  sleeping 

yet? . 567 

O  lay  thy  Loof  in  mine, 

Lass . 540 

O  Luve  will  venture  in ... .  481 
O  Mally ’s  meek,  Mally ’s 

sweet .  541 

O  May,  thy  Morn . 466 

O  steer  her  up . 668 

O  this  is  no  my  ain  Lassie  588 
O  wat  ye  wha  ’s  in  yon 

Town .  566,  579 

O  were  my  Love  yon  Lilac 

fair .  511 

O  wha  is  she  that  lo’es  me  ?  609 

O  whare  did  you  get  ? .  633 

Ode  on  Mrs.  Oswald . 776 

Ode  on  the  Chevalier’s 

Birthday .  305 

Oh  raging  Fortune's  with¬ 
ering  Blast .  82 

Oh,  were  I  on  Parnassus’ 

Hill! .  359 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld 

Blast .  602 

On  a  certain  Parson’s 

Looks . „ .  622 

On  a  Friend .  621 

On  a  Grotto  in  Friars’ 
Carse  Gi’ouuds .  625 


On  a  noisy  Polemic .  612 

On  a  noted  Coxcomb  . 625 

On  a  Procession  of  the  St 

James’s  Lodge .  273 

On  a  Scotch  Bard,  gone  to 

the  West  Indies .  263 

On  a  Wounded  Hare. .  .381,  382 
On  a  young  Lady  residing 
on  the  Banks  of  the  De¬ 
von  . 343 

On  Captain  Grose’s  Pe¬ 
regrinations  through 

Scotland .  399 

On  Captain  Matthew  Hen¬ 
derson  .  433 

On  Cessnock  Eanks .  49 

On  Chloris  being  ill .  581 

On  Commissary  Goldie’s 

Brains .  626 

On  Elphinstone’.s  Martial.  621 
On  Incivility  shown  him  at 

Inverary .  323 

On  John  Bushby,  Writer, 

Dumfries . 630 

On  Mr.  M’ Mur  do . 624 

On  Mr.  W.  Cruikshank ....  617 

On  Mr.  W.  Michie .  617 

On  Mr.  W.  Nieol . 617 

On  Miss  Burns .  617 

On  Miss  J.  Scott  of  Ayr. . .  615 

On  Pastoral  Poetry .  676 

On  scaring  some  Water- 

Fowl  in  Loch  Turit .  336 

On  seeing  Mrs.  Kemble  in 
Yarico . 628 


On  some  Commemorations 

of  Thomson .  490 

On  the  Death  of  John 

M’Leod,  Esq .  323 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  James 

Hunter  Blair .  325 

On  the  Destruction  of  the 
Woods  near  Drumlanrig  592 
On  the  “  Loyal  N  .tives  ”..  630 
On  the  Seas  and  far  away..  548 

On  wee  Johnny .  612 

On  W - R - ,  Esq .  628 

Open  the  Door  to  me,  oh  !  501 

Ordination,  The .  217 

Out  over  the  Forth . 533 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Phillis  the  Fair .  513 

Philly  and  Willy .  561 

Ploughman,  The .  637 

Poor  Mailie’s  Elegy .  59 

Prayer  for  Mary .  245 

Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of 

Death .  69 

Prayer  written  under  the 
Pressure  of  violent  An¬ 
guish  .  53 

Pi'ologue  at  Mr.  Wood’s 

Benefit .  318 

Prologue  for  Mr.  Suther¬ 
land’s  Benefit . 413 

Prologue  spoken  at  the 
Dumfries  Theatre,  Jan. 

1,  1790 .  411 

Psalm  First .  71 

Psalm  Ninetieth . .  72 

Rattlin’,  roarin’  Willie. . . .  311 
Raving  Winds  around  her 

blowing . . 351 

Red,  red  Rose,  A., .  531 

Rights  of  Woman,  The...  489 

Rigs  o’  Barley .  65 

Robin .  79 

Robin  shure  in  Hairst. ...  670 
Ronalds  of  the  Bennals. . .  47 
Rose-bud,  The . 338 

Sae  far  awa’ .  663 

Saw  ye  my  Phely  ? .  552 

Scotch  Drink .  190 

She  says  she  lo’es  me  best 

of  a’ .  551 

She ’s  fair  and  fause .  486 

Simmer ’s  a  pleasant  Time  638 
Sketch  (intended  for 

Creech) .  375 

Sketch  inscribed  to  Charles 

James  Fox .  378 

Sketch,  New-Year’s  Day, 

1790 .  409 

Slave’s  Lament,  The .  658 

Smiling  Spring,  The .  485 

Soldier’s  Return,  The.....  503 


PAGE 


Solemn  League  aud  Coven¬ 
ant,  The .  622 

Somebody .  534 

Song . 408,  464,  465,  496 

Song  composed  in  August.  67 
Song,  in  the  Character  of 

a  ruined  Farmer .  362 

Song  of  Death . 461 

Sonnet  on  the  Author’s 

Birthday .  499 

Sonnet  ou  the  Death  of 

Glenriddel . 542 

Sons  of  Old  Killie .  272 

Stanzas  on  the  Birth  of  a 

posthumous  Child .  445 

Stanzas  on  the  same  Occa¬ 
sion .  70 

Stay,  my  Charmer .  348 

Strathallan’s  Lament . 349 

Such  a  Parcel  of  Rogues 

in  a  Nation .  653 

Sweetest  May . 671 

Sweet  Sensibility,  how 

charming . 462 

Symon  Gray . 618 

Tam  o’  Shanter . 438 

Tam  Samson’s  Elegy .  629 

Tam*  the  Chapman .  613 

The  Creed  of  Poverty. .. .  630 
Their  Groves  o’  sweet 

Myrtle . 582 

There  ’ll  never  be  Peace 
till  Jamie  comes  Hame..  450 
There  was  a  bonny  Lass . .  671 


There  was  a  Lass . 635 

Though  cruel  Fate  should 

bid  us  part .  78,  247 

Though  fickle  Fortune  has 

deceived  me .  82 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever ....  522 

Tibbie  Dunbar .  416 

Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  Day  44 

Tither  Morn .  645 

To  a  Gentleman  who  sent 
the  Poet  a  Newspaper. . .  426 

To  a  Haggis .  316 

To  a  Louse .  215 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


To  a  Mountain  Daisy.  . . .  228 

To  a  Mouse .  125 

To  a  Painter . 616 

To  Chloris .  556 

To  Clarinda,  with  a  Pair  of 

Drinking-Glasses .  353 

To  Collector  Mitchell . 5% 

To  Colonel  De  Peyster. . . .  598 

To  Dr.  Blacklock .  396 

To  Dr.  Maxwell .  628 

To  Fergusson .  467 

To  Gavin  Hamilton. ..'....  238 

To  John  Taylor . 377 

To  Mary  in  Heaven . 395 

To  Miss  Cruikshank .  339 

To  Miss  Ferrier .  327 

To  Miss  Fontenelle,  on 
seeing  her  in  a  Favorite 

Character .  491 

To  Miss  Jessy  Lewars . 631 

To  Miss  Logan,  with  Beat- 

tie’s  Poems . 306 

To  Mr.  John  Kennedy _ 274 

To  Mr.  M’Adam  of  Craig- 

engillan .  285 

To  Mr.  Maxwell  of  Ter- 
raughty,  on  his  Birthday  460 

To  Mrs.  David  Wilson _ 618 

To  Mr.  Syme .  629 

To  Ruin . 235 

Toast  tor  the  12th  of  April  578 

Torbolton  Lassies .  46 

Tree  of  Liberty,  The .  545 

Troggin .  602 

Twa  Dogs .  206 

Twa  Herds .  105 

’T  was  na  her  bonny  blue 
Ee  was  my  Ruin . 583 

Up  in  the  Morning  early . .  634 

Verse  on  Miss  Ainslie .  618 

V erses  at  the  Fall  of  Fyers  333 
Verses  from  a  Memoran¬ 
dum  Book .  53 

Verses  in  Friar’s  Carse 

Hermitage . . 360,  361 

Verses  inscribed  in  a  Copy 
of  Miss  H.  More’s  Works  227 


PAGE 


Verses  intended  to  be  writ¬ 
ten  below  a  noble  Earl’s 

Picture .  312 

Verses  in  the  Inn  at  Ken- 

more .  328 

Verses  on  the  Destruction 
of  the  Woods  near  Drurn- 

lanrig .  592 

Verses  to  John  M’Murdo, 

Esq...  . - . 623 

Verses  to  John  Rankine. ..  614 
Verses  to  Mr.  John  Ken¬ 
nedy .  226 

Verses  under  the  Portrait 

of  Fergusson . 312 

Verses  written  at  Mr.  Law- 

rie’s .  28G 

Verses  written  on  the  Win¬ 
dow  of  an  Inn  at  Stir¬ 
ling .  621 

Verses  written  under  vio¬ 
lent  Grief . 277 

Versicles,  Miscellaneous.. 


Vision,  A . . . . .  532 

Vision,  The .  175,  359 

Wae  is  my  Heart .  537 

Wandei'ing  Willie .  501 

Weary  Pund  o’ Tow,  The. .  647 

Wee  Willie  Gray .  668 

Wha  is  that  at  my  Bower 

Door  ? .  644 

Whare  tae  ye  been? .  641 

What  can  a  Young  Lassie  ?  473 
When  first  I  came  to  Stew¬ 
art  Kyle . .  . .  81 

Where  are  the  Joys  ? . 524 

Where  braving  angry  Win¬ 
ter’s  Storms .  340 

Whistle  and  I  ’ll  come  to 

ye,  my  Lad .  347,  516 

Whistle,  The .  392 

Why,  why  tell  thy  Lover. .  588 

William  Smellie .  311 

Willie  brewed  a  Peck  o’ 

Maut .  391 

Willie  Chalmers .  279 

Willie  Stewart.... .  623 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Willie  Wastle .  484 

Willie  ’s  awa’ . 320 

Will  ye  go  to  tlie  Indies, 

my  Mary  ? . 246 

Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie  ?. .  535 

Winter,  a  Dirge .  52 

Winter  Night .  185 

Written  extempore  in  a 

Lady’s  Pocket-Book . 630 

Written  in  a  copy  oi  Thom¬ 
son’s  Melodies,  presented 

to  a  Lady .  545 

Written  in  a  Country 

Chui'ch .  618 

Written  in  an  Envelope  en¬ 
closing  a  Letter  to  Cap¬ 
tain  Grose .  53 

Written  on  a  Window  of 

the  Cross  Keys  Inn .  620 

Written  on  a  Window  of 
the  Globe  Tavern,  Dum¬ 
fries . 624 


PAGE 


Written  on  a  Window  of 

the  Inn  at  Carron .  620 

Written  on  the  Blank-Leaf 

of  his  Poems .  277 

Written  to  a  Gentleman 
who  had  sent  the  Poet  a 
Newspaper .  426 


Ye  Jacobites  by  Name. . . .  650 
Yestreen  I  got  a  Pint  of 


Wine .  506 

Yon  wild  mossy  Mountains  475 
Young  Highland  Hover. . .  350 
Young  Jamie,  Pride  of  a’ 

the  Plain .  650 

Young  Jessie .  502 

Young  Jockey .  643 

Young  Peggy .  189 

You  ’re  welcome  to  Des¬ 
pots,  Dumourier .  507 


DEDICATION 


PREFIXED  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

PUBLISHED  APRIL  21ST,  1787. 

- ♦ - 

To  the  Noblemen  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt. 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen.  —  A  Scottish 
bard,  proud  of  the  name,  and  whose  highest  am¬ 
bition  is  to  sing  in  his  country’s  service  —  where 
shall  he  so  properly  look  for  patronage  as  to  the 
illustrious  names  of  his  native  land,  those  who 
bear  the  honours,  and  inherit  the  virtues,  of  their 
ancestors  ?  The  poetic  genius  of  my  country 
found  me,  as  the  prophetic  bard  Elijah  did 
Elisha,  at  the  plough,  and  threw  her  inspiring 
mantle  over  me.  She  bade  me  sing  the  loves, 
the  joys,  the  rural  scenes  and  rural  pleasures  of 
my  native  soil,  in  my  native  tongue.  I  tuned  my 
wild,  artless  notes,  as  she  inspired.  She  whis¬ 
pered  me  to  come  to  this  ancient  metropolis  of 
Caledonia,  and  lay  my  songs  under  your  honoured 
protection.  I  now  obey  her  dictates. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I  do 
not  approach  you,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  in 
the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank  you  for  past 
favours ;  that  path  is  so  hackneyed  by  prostituted 


38  D  EDI  CAT  l  ON  OF  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

learning,  that  honest  rusticity  is  ashamed  of  it. 
Nor  do  I  present  this  address  with  the  venal  soul 
of  a  servile  author,  looking  for  a  continuation  of 
those  favours  :  —  I  was  bred  to  the  plough,  and 
am  independent.  I  come  to  claim  the  common 
Scottisli  name  with  you,  my  illustrious  country¬ 
men,  and  to  tell  the  world  that  I  glory  in  the 
title.  I  come  to  congratulate  my  country  that 
the  blood  of  her  ancient  heroes  still  runs  uncon¬ 
taminated  ;  and  that  from  your  courage,  knowl¬ 
edge,  and  public  spirit,  she  may  expect  protection, 
wealth,  and  liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I  come  to 
proffer  my  warmest  -wishes  to  the  great  fountain 
of  honour,  the  Monarch  of  the  Universe,  for  your 
welfare  and  happiness. 

When  vou  <ro  forth  to  waken  the  echoes,  in  the 
ancient  and  favourite  amusement  of  your  fore¬ 
fathers,  may  pleasure  ever  be  of  your  party,  and 
may  social  joy  await  your  return  !  When  har¬ 
assed  in  courts  or  camps  with  the  justlings  of  bad 
men  and  bad  measures,  may  the  honest  conscious¬ 
ness  of  injured  worth  attend  your  return  to  your 
native  seats  —  and  may  domestic  happiness,  with 
a  smiling  welcome,  meet  you  at  your  gates  ! 
May  corruption  shrink  at  your  kindling  indignant 
glance  ;  and  may  tyranny  in  the  ruler,  and  licen¬ 
tiousness  in  the  people,  equally  find  you  an  inex¬ 
orable  foe  !  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the 
sincerest  gratitude  and  highest  respect,  my  Lords 
and  Gentlemen,  your  most  devoted,  humble  ser¬ 
vant, 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  4 th  April ,  1787. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

1 759— 1 796- 
— • — 

HANDSOME  NELL. 

Tune —  Tam  a  Man  Unmarried. 

/All  once  I  loved  a  bonnie  lass. 

^  Ay,  and  I  love  her  still ; 

And  whilst  that  honour  warms  my  breast, 
1  ’ll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

As  bonnie  lasses  I  hae  seen, 

And  mony  full  as  braw  ; 

But  for  a  modest,  graeefu’  mien, 

The  like  I  never  saw. 

A  bonnie  lass,  I  will  confess, 

Is  pleasant  to  the  ee, 

But  without  some  better  qualities, 

She ’s  no  the  lass  for  me. 

But  Nelly’s  looks  are  blithe  and  sweet, 
And,  what  is  best  of  a’, 

Her  reputation  is  complete, 

And  fair  without  a  flaw.1 

1  Variation  in  Mr.  John  Dick's  MS. :  — 

Hut  Neiiv’s  looks  arc  blithe  and  sweet, 
Good-humoured,  frank,  and  free; 


4?  I  DREAMED  1  LA  Y. 

She  dresses  ave  sae  clean  and  neat. 

•/  7 

Both  decent  and  genteel : 

And  then  there’s  something  in  her  gait 
Gars  ony  dress  look  week 

A  gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  touch  the  heart ; 

But  it ’s  innocence  and  modesty 
That  polishes  the  dart. 

’T  is  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 

’T  is  this  enchants  my  soul ; 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 
She  reigns  without  control. 


I  DREAMED  I  LAY. 

DREAMED  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing 
Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 

Listening  to  the  wild  birds  simrin£, 

o  O  O 7 

By  a  falling,  crystal  stream  : 

Straight  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring  ; 

Through  the  woods  the  whirlwinds  rave  ; 

Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring, 

(Ter  the  swelling  drumlie  wave. 

Such  was  my  life’s  deceitful  morning, 

Such  the  pleasure  I  enjoyed  ; 

And  still  the  more  I  view  them  o'er, 

The  more  they  captive  me. 

/-  ie  next  verse  is  wanting  in  that  MS. 


NY  NANNIE ,  0.  43 

But  lang  or  noon,  loud  tempests  storming, 

A ’  my  flowery  bliss  destroyed. 

Though  fickle  Fortune  has  deceived  me,  — 

She  promised  fair,  and  performed  but  ill  ; 

Of  mony  a  joy  and  hope  bereaved  meg  — 

I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 


MY  NANNIE,  0. 

Tune  —  My  Nannie ,  O. 

OEHIND  yon  hills  where  Stinsiar  flows,1 

^  ’Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  O, 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  closed, 

And  I  ’ll  awa’  to  Nannie,  O. 

The  westlin  wind*  blaws  loud  and  shill ; 

The  night’s  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  O  ; 

But  I’ll  get  my  plaid,  and  out  I’ll  steal, 

And  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  O. 

My  Nannie ’s  charming,  sweet,  and  young, 
Nae  artfu’  wiles  to  win  ye,  O  : 

May  ill  befa’  the  flattering  tongue 
That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O  ! 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 

As  spotless  as  she ’s  bonny,  O  : 

The  opening  gowan,  wet  wi’  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O. 

i  Iu  subsequent  copies,  Burns  was  induced  to  substitute  for 
the  Stinsiar,  which  has  local  verity  in  its  favor,  the  Lugav,  a 
name  thought  to  be  more  euphonious,  but  which  is  otherwise 
unsuitable. 


44  TIBBIE ,  1  II AE  SEEN  THE  DAY . 

A  country  lad  Is  my  degree, 

And  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  0 
But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be  ? 

I ’m  welcome  aye  to  Nannie,  O. 

My  riches  a’s  my  penny-fee, 

And  I  maun  guide  it  canny,  O  ; 

But  warl’s  gear  ne’er  troubles  me, 

My  thoughts  are  a’  —  my  Nannie,  O. 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  and  kye  thrive  bonny,  O  ; 
But  I ’m  as  blithe  that  bauds  his  pleugh, 
And  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  O. 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  I  care  nae  by, 

I  ’ll  tak  what  Heaven  will  send  me,  O 
Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live  and  love  my  Nannie,  O. 

— ♦ — 

TIBBIE,  I  HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY 

Tune — Inver cauld's  Reel. 

TIBBIE,  I  hae  seen  the  day 
Ye  wad  na  been  sae  shy  ; 

For  lack  o’  gear  ye  lightly  me, 

But,  trowtli,  I  care  na  bv. 

Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  moor, 

Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  s  ton  re  ; 

Ye  geek  at  me  because  I ’m  poor, 

But  fient  a  hair  care  I. 


F1BEIE,  I  II AE  SEEN  TEE  DAY.  45 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think, 

Because  ye  hae  the  name  o’  clink, 

That  ye  can  please  me  at  a  wink, 

Whene’er  you  like  to  try. 

But  sorrow  tak  him  that’s  sae  mean, 

Although  his  pouch  o’  coin  were  clean, 

Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean, 

That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

Although  a  lad  were  e’er  sae  smart, 

If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt, 

Ye  ’ll  cast  your  head  another  airt, 

And  answer  him  fu’  dry.  # 

But  if  he  hae  the  name  o’  gear, 

Ye’ll  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier, 

Though  hardly  he,  for  sense  or  lear, 

Be  better  than  the  kye. 

But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice, 

Your  (laddie’s  gear  maks  you  sae  nice ; 

The  deil  a  ane  wad  speer  your  price, 

W  ere  ye  as  poor  as  I. 

There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park, 

I  would  na  gic  her  in  her  sark. 

For  thee,  wi’  a’  thy  thousan’  mark  ; 

Ye  need  11a  look  sae  high. 


4G  THE  TORBULTOX  LASSES. 


THE  TOKBOLTON  LASSES. 

TF  ye  gae  up  to  yon  liill-tap, 

Ye  ’ll  there  see  bonnie  Peggy  ; 

She  kens  her  father  is  a  laird, 

And  she  forsooth ’s  a  leddy. 

There  Sophy  tight,  a  lassie  bright, 
Besides  a  handsome  fortune  : 

Wha  canna  win  her  in  a  night, 

Has  little  art  in  courting. 

Gae  down  by  Faile,  and  taste  the  ale, 
And  tak  a  look  o’  Mysie  ; 

She’s  dour  and  din,  a  deil  within, 

But  ablins  she  may  please  ye. 

If  she  be  shy,  her  sister  try, 

Ye’ll  maybe  fancy  Jenny, 

If  ye  ’ll  dispense  wi’  want  o’  sense  — 
She  kens  hersel  she ’s  bonnie. 

As  ye  gae  up  by  yon  hillside, 

Speer  in  for  bonnie  Bessy  ; 

She  ’ll  gie  ye  a  beck,  and  bid  ye  light, 
And  handsomely  address  ye. 

There ’s  few  sae  bonnie,  nane  sae  guid, 
In  a’  King  George’  dominion  ; 

If  ye  should  doubt  the  truth  o’  this  — 
It ’s  Bessy’s  ain  opinion  ! 


RONALDS  OF  THE  BENNALS. 


47 


THE  RONALDS  OF  THE  BENNALS- 

IN  Torbolton,  ye  ken,  there  are  proper  young 
men, 

And  proper  young  lasses  and  a’,  man  ; 

But  ken  ye  the  Ronalds  that  live  in  the  Bennals, 
They  carry  the  gree  frae  them  a’,  man. 

Their  father ’s  a  laird,  and  weel  he  can  spare  ’t, 
Braid  money  to  tocher  them  a’,  man, 

To  proper  young  men,  he’ll  clink  in  the  hand 
Gowd  guineas  a  hunder  or  twa,  man. 

There ’s  ane  they  ca’  Jean,  I  ’ll  warrant  ye ’ve  seen 
As  bonnie  a  lass  or  as  braw,  man  ; 

But  for  sense  and  guid  taste  she  'll  vie  wi’  the  best. 
And  a  conduct  that  beautifies  a’,  man. 

The  charms  o’  the  min’,  the  langer  they  shine, 

The  mair  admiration  they  draw,  man  ; 

"While  peaches  and  cherries,  and  roses  and  lilies, 
They  fade  and  they  wither  awa,  man. 

If  ye  be  for  Miss  Jean,  tak  this  frae  a  frien’, 

A  hint  o’  a  rival  or  twa,  man  ; 

The  Laird  o’  Blaekbyre  wad  gang  through  the 
fire, 

If  that  wad  entice  her  awa,  man. 

The  Laird  o’  Braehead  has  been  on  his  speed, 

For  mair  than  a  towmond  or  twa.  man  ; 


4  s*  RONALDS  OF  THE  BENNAL8. 

The  Laird  o’  the  Ford  will  straught  on  a  board, 

If  he  canna  get  her  at  a’,  man. 

Then  Anna  comes  in,  the  pride  o’  her  kin. 

The  boast  of  our  bachelors  a’,  man  : 

Sae  sonsy  and  sweet,  sae  fully  complete, 

She  steals  our  affections  awa,  man. 

If  I  should  detail  the  pick  and  the  wale 
O’  lasses  that  live  here  awa,  man, 

The  fault  wad  be  mine,  if  they  didna  shine, 

The  sweetest  and  best  o’  them  a’,  man. 

I  lo’e  her  mysel,  but  darena  weel  tell, 

My  poverty  keeps  me  in  awe,  man ; 

For  making  o’  rhymes,  and  working  at  times, 

Does  little  or  naething  at  a’,  man. 

Yet  I  wadna  choose  to  let  her  refuse, 

Nor  hae ’t  in  her  power  to  say  na,  man  ; 

For  though  I  be  poor,  unnoticed,  obscure, 

My  stomach ’s  as  proud  as  them  a’,  man. 

Though  I  canna  ride  in  weel-booted  pride, 

And  Hee  o’er  the  hills  like  a  craw,  man, 

I  can  baud  up  my  head  wi’  the  best  o’  the  breed, 
Though  fluttering  ever  so  braw,  man. 

My  coat  and  my  vest,  they  arc  Scotch  >’  the  best, 
O’  pairs  o’  guid  breeks  I  hae  twa,  man, 

And  stockings  and  pumps  to  put  on  my  stumps, 
And  ne’er  a  wrang  steek  in  them  a’,  man. 


ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS.  49 

My  sarks  they  are  few,  but  five  o’  them  new, 
Tvval’  hundred,  as  white  as  the  snaw,  man, 

A  ten  shillings  hat,  a  Holland  cravat ; 

There  are  no  mony  poets  sae  braw,  man. 

I  never  had  frien’s,  'weel  stockit  in  means, 

To  leave  me  a  hundred  or  twa,  man  ; 

Nae  weel-tochered  aunts,  to  wait  on  their  drants, 
And  wish  them  in  hell  for  it  a’,  man. 

I  never  was  canny  for  hoarding  o’  money, 

Or  claughtin ’t  together  at  a’,  man  ; 

I ’ve  little  to  spend,  and  naething  to  lend, 

But  deevil  a  shilling  I  awe,  man. 


— ♦ — 

ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS.1 

Tune  —  If  he  be  a  Butcher  neat  and  trim. 

(  AN  Cessnock  Banks  there  lives  a  lass  ; 

Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien, 

The  graces  of  her  weel-faured  face, 

And  the  glancing  of  her  sparkling  een  ! 

1  This  piece  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  Cromek’s  Reliques , 
the  editor  stating  that  he  had  recovered  it  from  the  oral  com¬ 
munication  of  a  lady  residing  at  Glasgow,  whom  the  bard  in  early 
life  affectionately  admired.”  It  seems  not  unlikely  that  Ellison 
herself  had  grown  into  this  lady.  A  copy  printed  from  the  poet's 
manuscript  in  Pickering's  edition  of  his  works  is  considerably 
different  in  one  stanza,  presents  an  additional  one,  and  exhibits 
a  different  concluding  line  to  each  verse  — 

“  An’  she ’s  twa  sparkling  roguish  een.” 

VOL.  I.  4 


50  QN  CESSNOCK  BANKS. 

Slie ’s  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen, 

When  dew-drops  twinkle  o’er  the  lawn  ; 

And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

She ’s  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash, 

That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between, 
And  shoots  its  head  above  each  bush  ; 

And- she’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

She ’s  spotless  as  the  flowering  thorn, 

With  flowers  so  white  and  leaves  so  o’reen. 
When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn  ; 

And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb, 

When  flowery  May  adorns  the  scene, 

That  wantons  round  its  bleating  dam  ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curlino-  mist 

O 

That  shades  the  mountain-side  at  e’en, 
When  flower-reviving  rains  are  past ; 

And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  forehead  Vlike  the  showery  bow, 

When  shining  sunbeams  intervene, 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain’s  brow  ; 

And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  evening;  thrush 
That  sings  in  Cessnock  Banks  unseen. 


ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS. 


51 


While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush  ; 
And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherries  ripe 

That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen  ; 
They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight  ; 
And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Iler  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 

With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean, 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep  ; 

And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een.1 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossomed  bean, 
When  Phoebus  sinks  beneath  the  seas  ; 

And  she ’s  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

[Her  cheeks  are  like  yon  crimson  gem, 

The  pride  of  all  the  flowery  scene, 

Just  opening  on  its  thorny  stem  ; 

And  she’s  twa  sparkling  roguish  een.]  2 

But  it ’s  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 
Though  matching  beauty’s  fabled  queen, 
But  the  mind  that  shines  in  every  grace, 
And  chiefly  in  her  sparkling  een. 

!  Variation  in  Pickering’s  copy :  — 

Her  teeth  are  like  the  nightly  snow. 

While  pale  the  morning  rises  keen, 

While  hid  the  murmuring  streamlets  flow; 

And  she ’s  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

The  above  is  the  additional  stanza  in  Pickering’s  edition. 


52  WINTER,  A  DIRGE. 


WINTER,  A  DIRGE. 

rpHE  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw  ; 

Or,  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 
The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw  : 

While,  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  down, 
And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae  ; 

And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest, 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o’ercast, 

The  joyless  winter  day, 

Let  others  fear,  —  to  me  more  dear 
Than  all  the  pride  of  May  : 

The  tempest’s  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join  ; 

The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine  1 

Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 
These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 

Here  firm  I  rest,  —  they  must  be  best, 

Because  they  are  Thy  will  ! 

Then  all  I  want  (oh,  do  Thou  grant 
This  one  request  of  mine  !) 

Since  to  enjoy  Thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign  1 


A  PRAYER. 


A  PRAYER 


WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  PRESSURE  OF  VIOLENT  ANGUISH. 

YAH  Thou  great  Being  !  what  Thou  art 

^  Surpasses  me  to  know  : 

Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  Thee 
Are  all  Thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 

Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 
Obey  Thy  high  behest. 

Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 
From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 

Oh  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  ! 

JBut  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wise  design, 

Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves 
To  bear,  and  not  repine  ! 


♦ 


FROM  A  MEMORANDUM  BOOK. 


II  why  the  deuce  should  I  repine, 


And  be  an  ill  foreboder  ? 

I ’m  twenty-three,  and  five  feet  nine, 
I  ’ll  go  and  be  a  sodger  ! 

I  gat  some  gear  wi’  mickle  care, 

I  held  it  weel  thegither ; 


j4  MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER. 

But  now  it ’s  gane,  and  something  inair  — 
I  ’ll  go  and  be  a  sodger  1 


On  leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles, 

Ye  ’re  safer  at  your  spinning-wheel ; 

Such  witching  books  are  baited  hooks 
For  rakish  rooks  like  Hob  Mossmel.  .  .  . 

O 

Beware  a  tongue  that ’s  smoothly  hung, 

A  heart  that  warmly  seems  to  feel ; 

That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part ; 

’T  is  rakish  art  in  Rob  Mossgiel.  .  . 


MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER. 


Tune —  The  Weaver  and  his  Shuttle ,  O. 

lY/fY  father  was  a  farmer  upon  the  Carrick  bor- 
der,  O, 

4nd  carefully  he  bred  me  in  decency  and  or¬ 
der,  O  ; 

He  bade  me  act  a  manly  part,  though  I  had  ne’er 
a  farthing,  O  ; 

For  without  an  honest  manly  heart  no  man  was 
worth  regarding,  O. 


Then  out  into  the  world  my  course  I  did  deter 
mine,  O  ; 

Though  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish,  yet  to  be 
great  was  charming,  O  : 


MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER.  55 

My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst,  nor  yet  my 
education,  O  ; 

Resolved  was  I,  at  least  to  try,  to  mend  my  situ¬ 
ation,  O. 

In  many  a  way,  and  vain  essay,  I  courted  for¬ 
tune’s  favour,  O  ; 

Some  cause  unseen  still  stept  between,  to  frustrate 
each  endeavour,  O. 

Sometimes  by  foes  I  was  o’erpowered,  sometimes 
by  friends  forsaken,  O  ; 

And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top,  I  still  was 
worst  mistaken,  O. 

Then  sore  harassed,  and  tired  at  last,  with  for¬ 
tune’s  vain  delusion,  O, 

I  dropt  my  schemes,  like  idle  dreams,  and  came 
to  this  conclusion,  O  :  — 

The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid  —  its  good 
or  ill  untried,  O  ; 

But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  power,  and  so  I 
would  enjoy  it,  O. 

No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I,  nor  person  to 
befriend  me,  O  ; 

So  I  must  toil,  and  sweat,  and  broil,  and  labor  to 
sustain  me,  O  ; 

To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my  father 
bred  me  early,  O  ; 

For  one,  he  said,  to  labor  bred,  was  a  match  for 
fortune  fairly,  O. 


56  MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor,  through  life 
I ’m  doomed  to  wander,  0, 

Till  down  my  weary  bones  I  lay,  in  everlasting 
slumber,  0. 

No  view  nor  care,  but.  shun  whate’er  might  breed 
me  pain  or  sorrow,  O  ; 

I  live  to-day  as  well ’s  I  may,  regardless  of  to¬ 
morrow,  O. 

i 

But  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well  as  a  monarch  in  a 
palace,  O, 

Though  fortune’s  frown  still  hunts  me  down  with 
© 

all  her  wonted  malice,  O  : 

I  make  indeed  my  daily  bread,  but  ne’er  can  make 
it  further,  O  ; 

But  as  daily  bread  is  all  I  need,  I  do  not  much 
regard  her,  O. 

When  sometimes  by  my  labor  I  earn  a  little 
money,  O, 

Some  unforeseen  misfortune  comes  generally  upon 
me,  O  : 

Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect,  or  my  good- 
natured  folly,  O  : 

But  come  what  will,  I ’ve  sworn  it  still,  I  ’ll  ne’er 
be  melancholy,  O. 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power  with  unre¬ 
mitting  ardor,  O, 

The  more  in  this  you  look  for  bliss,  you  leave 
your  view  the  further,  O  : 


POOR  MAI  LIE,  57 

Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts,  or  nations  to 
adore  you,  O, 

A  cheerful  honest-hearted  clown  I  will  prefer  be¬ 
fore  you,  O. 


THE  DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS  OF  POOR 
MAILIE,  THE  AUTHOR’S  ONLY  PET  YOWE: 

AN  UNCO  MOURNFU'  TALK. 

\  S  Mailie  and  her  lambs  thegither, 

Were  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether, 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a  hitch, 

And  owre  she  warsled  in  the  ditch  : 

There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie, 

When  Iluglioc  he  cam  doytin’  by. 

Wi’  glowering  een  and  lifted  hands, 

Poor  Hrndioc  like  a  statue  stands ; 

He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 

But,  waes  my  heart !  he  could  na  mend  it. 
He  gaped  wide,  but  naething  spak  — 

At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

4  Oh  thou,  whose  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu’  case  ! 

My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 

And  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 

4  Tell  him,  if  e’er  again  he  keep 
As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a  sheep, 


POOR  MAILIE. 


58 

O  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi’  wicked  strings  o’  hemp  or  hair  ! 

But  ca’  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 

And  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 

So  may  his  flock  increase,  and  grow 
To  scores  o’  lambs,  and  packs  o’  woo’ ! 

‘  Tell  him  he  Avas  a  master  kin’, 

And  aye  was  guid  to  me  and  mine  ; 

And  now  my  dying  charge  I  gie  him  — 

My  helpless  lambs  I  trust  them  wi’  him. 

‘  Oh,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives 
Frae  dogs,  and  tods,  and  butchers’  knives  ! 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 

Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel ; 

And  tent  them  duly,  e’en  and  morn, 

Wi’  teats  o’  hay,  and  ripps  o’  corn. 

‘And  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  other  vile,  wanrestfu’  pets  ; 

To  slink  through  slaps,  and  reave  and  steal 
At  stacks  o’  peas,  or  stocks  o’  kail. 

So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears, 

For  mony  a  year  come  through  the  shears  : 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o’  bread, 

And  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they  ’re  dead 

‘  My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  and  heir. 
Oh,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi’  care  ; 

And  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 

To  pit  some  bavins  in  his  breast  1 


POOR  MAI  LIE'S  ELEGY.  59 

‘And  warn  him,  what  I  winna  name, 

To  stay  content  wi’  yowes  at  hame  ; 

And  no  to  rin  and  wear  his  cloots, 

Like  ither  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

‘And  neist  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 

Gude  keep  thee  frae  a  tether  string  ; 

Oh,  may  thou  ne’er  forgather  up 
Wi’  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop, 

But  aye  keep  mind  to  moop  and  mell 
Wi’  sheep  o’  credit  like  thysel. 

‘And  now,  my  bairns,  wi’  my  last  breath 
I  lea’e  my  blessin’  wi’  you  baith  : 

And  when  you  think  upo’  your  mither, 

Mind  to  be  kin’  to  ane  anitker. 

‘  Now,  honest  Ilughoc,  dinna  fail 
To  tell  my  master  a’  my  tale  ; 

And  bid  him  burn  his  cursed  tether, 

And,  for  thy  pains,  thou ’s  get  my  blether.’ 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turned  her  head, 

And  closed  her  een  arnang  the  dead. 

— « — 

POOR  MAILIE’S  ELEGY. 

/ 

T  AMENT  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

1  J  W  i’  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose  ; 
Our  bardie’s  fate  is  at  a  close, 

Tast  a’  remead; 


ec 


POOR  MAIL  IE'S  ELEGY. 

The  last  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes  — 
Poor  Mailie ’s  dead  ! 

It ’s  no  the  loss  o’  warl’s  gear, 

That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear, 

Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 
The  mourning  weed  : 

He ’s  lost  a  friend  and  neibor  dear, 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Through  a’  the  toun  she  trotted  by  him  ; 

A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him  ; 

Wi’  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him, 
She  ran  wi’  speed  : 

A  friend  mair  faithfu’  ne’er  cam  nigh  him 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o’  sense, 

And  could  behave  hersel  wi’  mense : 

I  ’ll  say ’t  she  never  brak  a  fence, 
Through  thievish  greed. 

Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 
Sin’  Mailie ’s  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe, 

Her  living  image  in  her  yowe, 

Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  the  knowe, 
For  bits  o’  bread  ; 

And  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 
For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  o’  moorland  tips, 

Wi’  tawted  ket,  and  hairy  hips, 

\ 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN— A  BALLAD.  61 

For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 
Frae  yont  the  Tweed  : 

A  bonnier  fleesh  ne’er  crossed  the  clips 
Than  Mailie  dead.1 

Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 

That  vile,  wanchancie  thing  a  rape  ! 

It  makes  guid  fellows  girn  and  gape, 

Wi’  chokin’  dread  ; 

And  Robin’s  bonnet  wave  wi’  crape, 

For  Mailie  dead. 

Oh  a’  ye  bards  on  bonnie  Doon  ! 

And  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune  ! 

Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 
O’  Robin’s  reed  ! 

His  heart  will  never  get  aboon  — 

Ills  Mailie ’s  dead  1 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN  — A  BALLAD. 

CP  HERE  were  three  kings  into  the  east, 
"*•  Three  kings  both  great  and  high ; 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 


*  Variation  in  original  MS. :  — 

She  was  nae  get  o’  runted  rams, 

Wi’  woo  like  goats,  and  legs  like  trains  ; 
She  was  the  Hower  o’  Fairly  lambs, 

A  famous  breed  ; 

Now  Robin,  greetin'*,  chows  the  hams 
O’  Mailie  dead. 


62  JOHN  BARLEYCORN— A  BALLAD. 

They  took  a  plough  and  ploughed  him  do\  i, 
Put  clods  upon  his  head  ; 

And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath, 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring,  came  kindly  on, 

And  showers  began  to  fall ; 

John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  sore  surprised  them  all. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong ; 

Plis  head  weel  armed  wi’  pointed  spears, 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  entered  mild, 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale ; 

His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Shewed  he  began  to  fail. 

His  colour  sickened  more  and  more, 

He  faded  into  age  ; 

And  then  his  enemies  began 
To  shew  their  deadly  rage. 

They ’ve  taen  a  weapon,  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 

Then  tied  him  fast  upon  a  cart, 

Like  a  rogue  lor  lorgerie. 

o  o 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back, 

And  cudgelled  him  full  sore  ; 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN— A  BALLAD.  63 


The)”  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 

And  turned  him  o’er  and  o’er. 

They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 
With  water  to  the  brim  ; 

They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor 
To  work  him  further  wo; 

And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appeared, 

They  tossed  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o’er  a  scorching  flame 
The  marrow  of  his  bones  ; 

But  a  miller  used  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crushed  him  ’tween  two  stones. 

And  they  hae  taen  his  very  heart’s  blood, 
And  drunk  it  round  and  round  ; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 
Their  joy  did  more  abound.  . 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise ; 

For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

’T  will  make  your  courage  rise. 

’T  will  make  a  man  forget  his  wo  ; 

’Twill  heighten  all  his  joy: 

’T  will  make  the  widow’s  heart  to  sing, 
Though  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 


64 


MARY  MORRISON. 


Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 
Each  man  a  glass  in  hand ; 

And  may  his  great  posterity 
Ne’er  fail  in  old  Scotland  ! 


MARY  MORRISON, 


H  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 


It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour  ! 

Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  poor  : 

How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 

Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morrison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string, 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha’. 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 

Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

I  sighed,  and  said  arming  them  a’ : 

‘  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morrison.’ 

Oh  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ; 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o’  Mary  Morrison. 


THE  RIGS  O'  BARLEY . 


65 


THE  RIGS  O’  BARLEY. 

Tone  —  Corn  Rigs. 

TT  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 
When  corn  rigs  are  bonnie, 
Beneath  the  moon’s  unclouded  light, 
I  held  awa  to  Annie  : 

The  time  flew  by  wi’  tentless  heed, 
Till  ’tween  the  late  and  early, 

W  i’  sma’  persuasion  she  agreed 
To  see  me  through  the  barley. 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still. 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly ; 

I  set  her  down  wi’  right  good  will 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley ; 

I  kent  her  heart  was  a’  my  ain  ; 

I  loved  her  most  sincerely  ; 

I  kissed  her  owre  and  owre  again 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley. 

I  locked  her  in  my  fond  embrace  ; 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely  : 

My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley  ! 

But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright, 
That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly, 
She  aye  shall  bless  that  happy  night 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley  ! 

I  hae  been  blithe  wi’-  comrades  dear  ; 
I  hae  been  merry  drinkin’ ; 

VOL.  I.  5 


66  MONTGOMERY'S  PEGGY. 

[  hae  been  joyfu’  gath’rin’  gear  ; 

I  hae  been  happy  think!  n’  : 

But  a’  the  pleasures  e’er  I  saw, 

Though  three  times  doubled  fairly, 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a’. 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley. 


CHORUS. 

Corn  rigs,  and  barley  rigs, 

And  corn  rigs  are  bonnie  : 

I  ’ll  ne’er  forget  that  happy  night 
Amang  the  rigs  wi’  Annie. 

— -♦ — 


MONTGOMERY’S  PEGGY. 

Tuxe —  Gala  Water. 

A  LTIIOUGH  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir 
^  Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie, 
Yet  happy,  happy  would  I  be, 

Had  I  my  dear  Montgomery’s  Peggy. 


When  o’er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms, 

And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy, 
I ’d  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 
I ’d  shelter  dear  Montgomery’s  Peggy. 

Were  I  a  baron  proud  and  high, 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready, 
Then  a’  ’t  wad  gie  o’  joy  to  me, 

The  sliarin ’t  with  Montgomery’s  Peggy. 


SONG  COMPOSED  IN  AUGUST.  67 


SONG  composed  in  august. 


Tune  —  I  had  a  horse ,  I  had  nae  mair. 


TUT" OW  westlin  winds  and  slaught’ring  guns 
Bring  autumn’s  pleasant  weather  ; 

The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 


Amang  the  blooming  heather. 


Now  waving  grain,  wide  o’er  the  plain, 
Delights  the  weary  farmer  ; 

And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  I  rove  at 
To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 


night 


The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells  ; 

The  plover  loves  the  mountains  ; 
The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells  , 
The  soaring  hern  the  fountains : 
Through  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 
The  path  of  man  to  shun  it; 

The  hazel-bush  o’erhangs  the  thrush, 
The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 


Thus  every  kind  their  pleasure  find, 
The  savage  and  the  tender  ; 

Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine  , 
Some  solitary  wander  : 

Avaunt,  away  !  the  cruel  sway, 
Tyrannic  man’s  dominion  ; 

The  sportsman’s  joy,  the  murdering  cry, 
The  fluttering  gory  pinion. 

But  Peggy,  dear,  the  evening ’s  clear, 
Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow  ; 


68  INSCRIPTION  FOR  WILLIAM  BURN  ESS. 


The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view, 

All  fading-green  and  yellow  : 

Come,  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way, 
And  view  the  charms  of  nature ; 

The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn, 
And  every  happy  creature. 

We  ’ll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk, 
Till  the  silent  moon  shine  clearly ; 

I  ’ll  grasp  thy  waist,  and  fondly  prest, 
Swear  how  I  love  thee  dearly  : 

Not  vernal  showers  to  budding  flowers, 
Not  autumn  to  the  farmer, 

So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me, 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer  ! 


INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  TOMBSTONE  OF 
WILLIAM  BURNESS. 

/'AH  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 

^  Draw  near  with  pious  rev’rence  and  attend  1 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband’s  dear  remains, 

The  tender  father,  and  the  gen’rous  friend. 

The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  wo  ; 

The  dauntless  heart  that  feared  no  human  pride  : 
Hie  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe  ; 

“  For  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue’s  side.” 

O 


PRAYER  IN  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH.  69 


A  PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

/""ill  thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 
Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  ! 

In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 
Perhaps  I  must  appear  ! 

If  I  have  wandered  in  those  paths 
Of  life  I  ought  to  shun, 

As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 
Remonstrates  I  have  done  ; 

Thou  know’st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 

And  listening:  to  their  witching;  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short, 

Or  frailty  stept  aside, 

Do  thou,  All-good  !  —  for  such  thou  art,  — 
In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

Where  with  intention  I  have  erred, 

No  other  plea  I  have, 

But,  Thou  art  good  ;  and  goodness  still 
Delijditeth  to  forgive. 

O  O 


STANZAS. 


7C 


STANZAS  ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 


T\THY  am  I  lotli  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 
Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  between  : 
Some  gleams  of  sunshine  ’mid  renewing 
storms : 

Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death’s  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms  ; 

I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 

And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 


Fain  would  I  say,  “  Forgive  my  foul  offence  !  ” 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey ; 

But  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 
Again  I  might  desert  fair  Virtue’s  way  : 
Again  in  Folly’s  path  might  go  astray  ; 

Again  exalt  the  brute,  and  sink  the  man ; 
Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy’s  plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to  temptation 
ran  ? 


Oh  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below  ! 

If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 

Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 
Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea  : 

With  that  controlling  power  assist  even  me 


TEE  FIRST  PSALM.  71 

Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  confine ; 

For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be, 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed  line  ; 

Oh,  aid  me  with  Thy  help,  Omnipotence  Divine  1 1 

- — ♦ — 

THE  FIRST  PSALM. 

LITHE  man,  in  life  wherever  placed, 

Hath  happiness  in  store, 

Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked’s  way, 

Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore  ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow  ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high, 

And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt, 

Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

i  In  Mr.  Dick’s  MS.  is  apparently  an  earlier  copy  of  this  poem, 
containing  some  variations  expressive  of  deeper  contrition  than 
what  here  appears.  After  “Again  I  might  desert  fair  Virtue’s 
wav,”  comes,  “Again  by  passion  would  be  led  asti’ay.”  The  sec¬ 
ond  line  of  the  last  stanza  is,  “  If  one  so  black  with  crimes  dare 
on  thee  call.” 


72 


THE  NINETIETH  PSALM. 


For  why?  that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  given  them  peace  and  rest, 
But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne’er  be  truly  blest. 


THE  FIRST  SIX  VERSES  OF  THE  NINETIETH 

PSALM. 


Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 
w  Of  all  the  human  race  ! 

Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

O  o 

Their  stay  and  dwelling-place  ! 


Before  the  mountains  heaved  their  heads 
Beneath  thy  forming  hand,  • 

Before  this  ponderous  globe  itself 
Arose  at  Thy  command  ; 


That  Power  which  raised  and  still  upholds 
This  universal  frame, 

From  countless,  unbeginning  time, 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 


Those  mighty  periods  of  years 
Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 

Appear  no  more  before  Thy  sight 
Than  yesterday  that ’s  past. 

Thou  giv’st  the  word :  Thy  creature  man, 
Is  to  existence  brought; 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  RANK  IN E.  7  3 

Again  Thou  say’s! :  “Ye  sons  of  men, 

Return  ye  into  nought  !  ” 

Thou  layest  them  with  all  their  cares 
In  everlasting  sleep ; 

As  with  a  flood  Thou  tak’st  them  off, 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flower, 

In  beauty’s  pride  arrayed  ; 

But  long  ere  night,  cut  down,  it  lies 
All  withered  and  decayed. 

— ♦ — 

EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  RANKINE. 

YAH  rough,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine, 

The  wale  o’  cocks  for  fun  and  drinkin’  I 
There ’s  mony  godly  folks  are  tliinkin’, 

Your  dreams  and  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin’, 

Straught  to  Auld  Nick’s. 

Ye  liae  sae  mony  cracks  and  cants, 

And  in  your  wicked,  drucken  rants, 

Ye  mak  a  devil  o’  the  saunts, 

And  fill  them  fou  ; 

And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  and  wants, 

Are  a’  seen  through. 

Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 

That  holy  robe,  oh  dinna  tear  it ! 


74  EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  RANKINE. 

t 

Spare ’t  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it. 
The  lads  in  black  ! 

But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 
Rives ’t  aff  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye  ’re  skaithing  : 

It ’s  just  the  blue-gown  badge  and  clai thing 

O’  saunts  ;  tak  that,  ye  lea’e  them  naithing 
To  ken  them  by, 

Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 
Like  you  or  I. 

I’ve  sent  you  here  some  rhyming  ware, 

A’  that  I  bargained  for,  and  mair  ; 

Sae,  whan  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I  will  expect 

Yon  sang,  ye  ’ll  sen ’t  wi’  canny  care, 

And  no  neglect. 

Though,  faith,  sma’  heart  hae  I  to  sing  ! 

My  muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing 

I ’ve  played  mysel  a  bonnie  spring, 

And  danced  my  fill ; 

I ’d  better  gaen  and  sair’t  the  kino- 
At  Bunker’s  Hill. 

’T  was  ae  night  lately,  in  my  fun, 

I  gaed  a-roving  wi’  the  gun, 

And  brought  a  paitrick  to  the  grun’, 

A  bonnie  hen, 

And  as  the  twilight  was  begun, 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  RANK  IN E.  75 

\ 

The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hurt ; 

I  straikit  it  a  wee  for  sport, 

Ne’er  thinking  they  wad  fash  me  for ’t : 

But  deil-ma-care  ! 

Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 
The  hale  affair. 

Some  auld  used  hands  had  taen  a  note 
That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot ; 

I  was  suspected  for  the  plot ; 

I  scorned  to  lie  ; 

So  gat  the  whistle  o’  my  groat, 

And  pay ’t  the  fee.  .  .  . 

As  soon ’s  the  clocking-time  is  by, 

And  the  wee  pouts  begun  to  cry, 

L — ,  I’se  hae  sportin’  by  and  by, 

For  my  gowd  guinea, 

Though  I  should  hunt  the  buckskin  kye 
For’t  in  Virginia.  .  .  . 

It  puts  me  aye  as  mad ’s  a  hare  ; 

So  I  can  rhyme  and  write  nae  mair ; 

But  pennyworths  again  is  fair, 

When  time ’s  expedient : 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  sir, 

Your  most  obedient. 


G 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES. 


Tune  —  Green  grow  the  Rashes. 


rJ^HERE  ’S  nought  but  care  on  every  hand. 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  O  : 

What  signifies  the  life  o’  man, 

And ’t  were  na  for  the  lasses,  O. 


CHORUS. 


Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e’er  I  spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  0. 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 

And  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O ; 

And  though  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne’er  enjoy  them,  O. 

Gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e’en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 

And  warly  cares,  and  warly  men, 

May  a’  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 

For  you  sae  douce  ye  sneer  at  this, 

Ye  ’re  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O  : 

The  wisest  man  the  warl’  e’er  saw, 

He  dearly  loved  the  lasses,  O. 


Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O  : 


THE  CURE  FOR  ALL  CARE. 


77 


Her  ’prentice  band  she  tried  on  man, 

And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

— • — 

THE  CURE  FOR  ALL  CARE. 

Tune — Prepare ,  my  dear  Brethren ,  to  the  Tavern  let ’s  fly. 

IV  O  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write, 
No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight, 
No  slv  man  of  business  contriving  a  snare ; 

For  a  big-bellied  bottle ’s  the  whole  of  my  care 

The  peer  I  don’t  envy,  I  give  him  his  bow ; 

I  scorn  not  the  peasant,  though  ever  so  low  ; 

But  a  club  of  good  fellows,  like  those  that  are 
here, 

And  a  bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and  care. 

Here  passes  the  squire  on  his  brother  —  his  horse ; 
There  centum  per  centum,  the  cit  with  his  purse  ; 
But  see  you  The  Crown,  how  it  waves  in  the  air ! 
There  a  big-bellied  bottle  still  eases  my  care. 

The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas !  she  did  die  ; 

For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I  did  fly  ; 

I  found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair, 

That  a  big-bellied  bottle ’s  a  cure  for  all  care. 

I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to  make  ; 

A  letter  informed  me  that  all  was  to  wreck ; 

But  the  pursy  old  landlord  just  waddled  up  stairs, 
With  a  glorious  boitle  that  elided  my  cares. 


73  FROM  THE  COMMONPLACE-BOOK. 

‘  Life’s  cares,  they  are  comforts  ’  —  a  maxim  laid 
down 

By  the  bard,  what  d’  ye  call  him,  that  wore  the 
black  gown  ; 

And,  faith,  I  agree  with  tlf  old  prig  to  a  hair  ; 

For  a  big-bellied  bottle ’s  a  heaven  of  care. 

ADDED  IN  A  MASON  LODGE. 

Then  fill  up  a  bumper,  and  make  it  o’erflow, 

And  honors  masonic  prepare  for  to  throw ; 

May  every  true  brother  of  tlf  compass  and  square 

Have  a  big-bellied  bottle  when  harassed  with 
care  ! 

— • — 


“THOUGH  CRUEL  FATE  SHOULD  BID  US 

PART.” 

nnHOUGH  cruel  Fate  should  bid  us  part, 
As  far ’s  the  Pole  and  Line, 

Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 
Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Though  mountains  frown  and  deserts  howl, 
And  oceans  roar  between  ; 

Yet,  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


One  night  as  I  did  wander, 
When  corn  begins  to  shoot, 
I  sat  me  down  to  ponder, 
Upon  an  auld  tree-root. 


ROBIN. 


73 

Aulcl  Ayr  ran  by  before  me, 

And  bickered  to  tlie  seas, 

A  cushat  crooded  o’er  me, 

That  echoed  through  the  braes. 


♦ 


ROBIN. 


Tune  —  Dainty  Davie. 

rPHERE  was  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyle, 
But  whatna  day  o’  whatna  style, 

I  doubt  it ’s  hardly  worth  my  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi’  Robin. 

Robin  was  a  rovin’  boy, 

Rantin’  rovin’,  rantin’  rovin’ ; 
Robin  was  a  rovin’  boy, 

Rantin’  rovin’  Robin  ! 

Our  monarch’s  hindmost  year  but  ane 
w  as  five-and-twenty  days  begun, 

’T  was  then  a  blast  o’  Janwar’  win’ 
Blew  handsel  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof, 

Quo’  scho,  wha  lives  will  see  the  proof, 
This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  coof ; 

I  think  we  ’ll  ca’  him  Robin. 

He  ’ll  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma’, 
But  aye  a  heart  aboon  them  a’ ; 


80  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RUISSEAUX 

He  ’ll  be  a  credit  till  ns  a’ ; 

We  ’ll  a’  be  proud  o’  Robin. 

But  sure  as  three  times  three  mak  nine, 

T  see  by  ilka  score  and  line, 

This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin’, 

So  leeze  me  on  thee,  Robin. 

— « — 

ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT 
RUISSEAUX. 

"\T OW  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair, 

^  He  ’ll  gabble  rhyme  nor  sing  nae  mair, 
Cauld  poverty,  wi’  hungry  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him  ; 

Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankert  care, 

E’er  mair  come  near  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fash’t  him, 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crush’t  him  ; 

For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  hush’t  ’em, 
Though  e’er  sae  short, 

Then  wi’  a  rhyme  or  sang  he  lash’t  ’em, 

And  thought  it  sport. 

Though  he  was  bred  to  kintra  wark, 

And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark, 

Yet  that  was  never  Robin’s  mark 
To  mak  a  man  ; 

But  tell  him,  he  was  learned  and  dark, 

Ye  roosed  him  than  ! 


WHEN  FIRST  I  CAME.  81 


THE  BELLES  OF  MAUCHLINE. 

T  N  Mauchline  tliere  dwells  six  proper  young 
belles, 

The  pride  of  the  place  and  its  neighbourhood  a’, 
Their  carriage  and  dress,  a  stranger  would  guess, 
In  Lon’on  or  Paris,  they ’d  gotten  it  a’. 

Miss  Miller  is  fine,  Miss  Markland ’s  divine, 

Miss  Smith  she  has  wit,  and  Miss  Betty  is  braw, 
There ’s  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  wi’  Miss  Morton  ; 
But  Armour’s  the  jewel  for  me  o’  them  a. 


WHEN  FIRST  I  CAME  TO  STEWART  KYLE. 

Tune  —  I  had  a  Horse ,  I  had  nae  mair. 

TTT  IIBN  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 

*  *  My  mind  it  was  na  steady, 

Where’er  I  gaed,  where’er  I  rade, 

A  mistress  still  I  had  aye. 

But  when  I  came  roun’  by  Mauchline  toun, 
Not  dreadin’  anybody, 

My  heart  was  caught  before  I  thought, 

And  by  a  Mauchline  lady. 

von.  i.  6 


82  RAGING  FORTUNE'S  WITHERING  BLAST 


THOUGH  FICKLE  FORTUNE  HAS  DECEIVED 

ME. 

nPHOUGH  fickle  fortune  has  deceived  me, 

She  promised  fair,  and  performed  but  ill ; 

Of  mistress,  friends,  and  wealth  bereaved  me, 
Yet  I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 

1  ’ll  act  with  prudence  as  far ’s  I ’m  able, 

But  if  success  I  must  never  find, 

Then  come  misfortune,  I  bid  thee  welcome, 

I  ’ll  meet  thee  with  an  undaunted  mind.1 


♦ 


OH  RAGING  FORTUNE’S  WITHERING  BLAST. 


YYlI  raging  fortune’s  withering  blast 
^  Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  O  ! 

Oh  raging  fortune’s  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  O  ! 


My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green, 
My  blossom  sweet  did  blow,  O  ; 
The  dew  fell  fresh,  the  sun  rose  mild, 
And  made  my  branches  grow,  O. 


1  The  above  was  an  extempore,  under  the  pressure  of  a  heavy 
train  of  misfortunes,  which  indeed  threatened  to  undo  me  alto¬ 
gether.”  —  B. 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE.  83 

But  luckless  fortune’s  northern  storms 
Laid  a’  my  blossoms  low,  O  ! 

But  luckless  fortune’s  northern  storms 
Laid  a’  my  blossoms  low,  O  ! 

— « — 

EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A  BROTHER  POET. 

IIILE  winds  frae  aff  Ben-Lomond  blaw, 
And  bar  the  doors  wi’  driving  snaw, 

And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 

O  O  7 

I  set  me  down  to  pass  the  time, 

And  spin  a  verse  or  two  o’  rhyme, 

In  hamely  westlin’ jingle. 

While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  cliimla  lug, 

I  grudge  a  wee  the  great  folic’s  gift, 

That  live  sae  bien  and  snug  : 

I  tent  less,  and  want  less 
Their  roomy  fireside  ; 

But  hanker  and  canker 
To  see  their  cursed  pride. 

It ’s  hardly  in  a  body’s  power 
To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour, 

To  see  how  things  are  shared ; 

How  best  o’  chiels  are  whiles  in  want, 

While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant, 

And  ken  na  how  to  wair ’t ; 

But,  Davie,  lad,  ne’er  fash  your  head ; 


84 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE. 

Though  we  hae  little  gear, 

We  ’re  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 

-As  lano;  ’s  we  ’re  hale  and  her : 

‘  Mair  spier  na,  nor  fear  na,’ 

Auld  age  ne’er  mind  a  feg, 

The  last  o’ ’t,  the  warst  o’ ’t, 

Is  only  but  to  beg. 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e’en, 

When  banes  are  crazed,  and  bluid  is  thin, 
Is  doubtless  great  distress  ! 

Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest ; 
Even  then,  sometimes  we ’d  snatch  a  taste 
Of  truest  happiness. 

The  honest  heart  that ’s  free  frae  a’ 
Intended  fraud  or  guile, 

However  fortune  kick  the  ba’, 

Has  aye  some  cause  to  smile : 

And  mind  still,  you  ’ll  find  still, 

A  comfort  this  nae  sma’ ; 

Nae  mair  then,  we  ’ll  care  then, 

Nae  farther  we  can  fa’. 

What  though,  like  commoners  of  air, 

We  wander  out  we  know  not  where, 

But  either  house  or  ha?  ? 

Yet  nature’s  charms,  the  hills  and  woods, 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods, 
Are  free  alike  to  all. 

In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 
And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 

With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound 
To  see  the  coming  year : 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE . 

On  braes  when  we  please  then, 

We  ’ll  sit  and  sowth  a  tune  ; 

Syne  rhyme  till ’t,  we  ’ll  time  till ’t, 

And  sing 't  when  we  hae  duim 

It ’s  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank, 

It ’s  no  in  wealth  like  Lon’on  bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 

It ’s  no  in  making  muckle  mair ; 

It ’s  no  in  books  ;  it ’s  no  in  lear, 

To  mak  us  truly  blest ; 

If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 
And  centre  in  the  breast, 

We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 

But  never  can  be  blest ; 

Nae  treasures  nor  pleasures 
Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 

The  heart  aye ’s  the  part  aye 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wlia  drudge  and  drive  through  wet  and  dry, 
Wi’  never-ceasing  toil ; 

Think  ye,  we  are  less  blest  than  they, 

Wha  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way, 

As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 

Alas  !  how  aft,  in  haughty  mood, 

God’s  creatures  they  oppress  ! 

Or  else,  neglecting  a’  that ’s  guid, 

They  riot  in  excess  ! 

Baitli  careless  and  fearless 
Of  either  heaven  or  hell  ! 

Esteeming;  and  deeming 
It ’s  a’  an  idle  tale ! 


85 


86  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE. 

Then  let  us  cheerful’  acquiesce ; 

Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less, 

By  pining  at  our  state ; 

And  even  should  misfortunes  come, 

I,  here  wha  sit,  hae  met  wi’  some, 

An ’s  thankfu’  for  them  yet. 

They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth ; 

They  let  us  ken  ours  el’ ; 

They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth, 

The  real  guid  and  ill. 

Though  losses  and  crosses 
Be  lessons  right  severe, 

There ’s  wit  there,  ye  ’ll  get  there, 
Ye  ’ll  find  nae  other  where. 

But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o’  hearts  ! 

(To  say  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  cartes, 
And  flatt’ry  I  detest) 

This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 

And  joys  that  riches  ne’er  could  buy  ; 

And  joys  the  very  best. 

There ’s  a’  the  pleasures  o’  the  heart, 

The  lover  and  the  frien’ ; 

Yre  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 

And  I  my  darling  Jean  ! 

It  warms  me,  it  charms  me, 

To  mention  but  her  name  : 

It  heats  me,  it  beets  me, 

And  sets  me  a’  on  flame ! 

Oh  all  ye  powers  who  rule  above ! 

Oh  Thou  whose  very  self  art  love  ! 

Thou  know’st  mv  words  sincere  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE . 

The  life-blood  streaming  through  my  heart. 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  ! 

When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 

O  o 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 

Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 

Thou  Being,  all-seeing, 

Oh  hear  my  fervent  prayer ! 

Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  ! 

All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear  ! 

The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear, 

The  sympathetic  glow  ! 

Long  since,  this  world’s  thorny  ways 
Had  numbered  out  my  weary  days, 

Had  it  not  been  for  you ! 

Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a  friend, 

In  every  care  and  ill  ; 

And  oft  a  more  endearing  band, 

A  tie  more  tender  still. 

It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene, 

To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean  ! 

Oh  how  that  name  inspires  my  style ! 

The  words  come  skelpin’,  rank  and  file. 

Amaist  before  I  ken  ! 

The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 
Were  glowrin’  owre  my  pen. 


87 


83  DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp, 

Till  ance  lie ’s  fairly  Let ; 

And  then  he  ’ll  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jimp, 
And  rin  an  unco  fit : 

But  lest  then,  the  beast  then 
Should  rue  this  hasty  ride, 

I  ’ll  light  now,  and  dight  now 
His  sweaty,  wdzened  hide. 


♦ 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK: 

,  \ 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

COME  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 

^  And  some  great  lies  were  never  penned  : 
Ev’n  ministers  they  hae  been  kenned, 

In  holy  rapture, 

A  rousing  wliid  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail ’t  wi’  Scripture. 

But  this  that  I  am  gaun  to  tell, 

Which  lately  on  a  night  befell, 

Is  just  as  true ’s  the  deil ’s  in  hell, 

Or  Dublin  city : 

That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel’ 

’S  a  muckle  pity. 

The  claclian  yill  had  made  me  canty  — 

I  was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty  ; 


DEATH  AND  DR.  IIORNBOOK.  89 

I  stacliered  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  aye 
To  free  the  ditches  ; 

And  hillocks,  stanes,  and  bushes  kenn’d  aye 
Frae  ghaists  and  witches. 

The  rising  moon  be^an  to  glow’r 

The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre  : 

To  count  her  horns,  wi’  a’  my  power, 

I  set  mysel’ ; 

But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I  could  na  tell. 

I  was  come  round  about  the  hill, 

And  todlin’  down  on  Willie’s  mill. 

Setting  my  staff  wi’  a’  my  skill, 

To  keep  me  sicker  ; 

Though  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

I  took  a  bicker. 

I  there  wi’  Something  did  forgather, 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither  ; 

An  awfu’  scythe,  out-owre  ae  shouther, 
Clear-dangling,  hang  ; 

A  three-taed  leister  on  the  ither 
Lay,  large  and  lang. 

Its  stature  seemed  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 

The  queerest  shape  that  e’er  I  saw  ; 

For  fient  a  wame  it  had  ava ; 

And  then,  its  shanks, 

They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp  and  sma’, 

As  cheeks  o’  branks. 


90  DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK . 

“  Guid  e’en,”  quo’  I;  “friend,  liae  ye  been 
mawin’, 

When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin’  ?  ” 

It  seemed  to  mak  a  kind  o’  stan’, 

But  naething  spak  ; 

At  length  savs  I :  “  Friend,  whare  ye  gaun  ? 
Will  ye  go  back  ?  ” 

It  spake  right  howe  :  “  My  name  is  Death, 
But  be  na  fley’d.”  Quoth  I :  “  Guid  faith, 
Ye  ’re  maybe  come  to  stap  my  breath  ; 

But  tent  me,  billie  — 

I  red  ye  weel,  tak  care  o’  scaith, 

See,  there ’s  a  gully  !  ” 

“  Guidman,”  quo’  he,  “  put  up  your  whittle, 

I ’m  no  designed  to  try  its  mettle  ; 

But  if  I  did,  I  wad  be  kittle 
To  be  mislear’d  ; 

I  wadna  mind  it,  no  that  spittle 
Out-owre  my  beard.” 

“  Weel,  weel !  ”  says  I,  “  a  bargain  be ’t ; 
Come,  gie ’s  your  hand,  and  say  we  ’re  gree’t? 
W e  ’ll  ease  our  shanks  and  tak  a  seat  — 
Come,  gie ’s  your  news  ; 

This  while  ye  hae  been  mony  a  gaet, 

At  mony  a  house.” 

“Ay,  ay  !  ”  quo’  he,  and  shook  his  head, 

“  It ’s  e’en  a  lang  lang  time  indeed 
Sin’  I  began  to  nick  the  thread, 

And  choke  the  breath : 


/ 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK.  91 

Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread, 
And  sae  maun  Death. 

“  Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 
Sin’  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

And  mony  a  scheme  in  vain ’s  been  laid. 

To  stap  or  scaur  me  ; 

Till  ane  Hornbook ’s  taen  up  the  trade, 

And  faith  he  ’ll  waur  me. 

“  Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i’  the  clachan, 

Deil  mak  his  king’s-hood  in  a  spleuchan ! 

He ’s  grown  sae  weel  acquant  wi’  Buchan 
And  ither  chaps, 

The  weans  baud  out  their  fingers  laughin’, 
And  pouk  my  hips. 

“  See,  here ’s  a  scythe,  and  there ’s  a  dart, 
They  hae  pierced  mony  a  gallant  heart  ; 

But  Doctor  Hornbook  wi’  his  art 
And  cursed  skill, 

Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a  — ; 

D — d  haet  they  ’ll  kill. 

“  ’T  was  but  yestreen,  nae  further  gaen, 

I  threw  a  noble  throw  at  ane ; 

Wi’  less,  I ’m  sure,  I ’ve  hundreds  slain  ; 

But  deil-ma-care, 

It  just  played  dirl  on  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 

“  Hornbook  was  by  wi’  ready  art, 

And  had  sae  fortified  the  part, 


D2  DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart, 

It  was  sae  blunt, 

Fient  haet  o’ ’t  wad  hae  pierced  the  heart 
O’  a  kail-runt. 

“  1  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a  fury, 

I  near  hand  cowpit  wi’  my  hurry, 

But  yet  the  bauld  apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock  ; 

I  might  as  weel  hae  tried  a  quarry 
O’  hard  whin  rock. 

“  Even  them  he  canna  get  attended, 
Although  their  face  he  ne’er  had  kenned  it, 
Just  —  in  a  kail-blade  and  send  it, 

As  soon ’s  he  smells ’t, 

Baith  their  disease  and  what  will  mend  it 
At  once  he  tells ’t. 

“  And  then  a’  doctor’s  saws  and  whittles, 

Of  a’  dimensions,  shapes,  and  metals, 

A’  kinds  o’  boxes,  mugs,  and  bottles, 

He ’s  sure  to  hae  ; 

Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 
As  A  B  C. 

“  Calces  o’  fossils,  earths,  and  trees  ; 

True  sal-marinum  o’  the  seas ; 

The  farina  of  beans  and  peas, 

He  has ’t  in  plenty  ; 

Aqua-fontis,  what  you  please, 

He  can  content  ye. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK.  93 

“  Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 
Urinus  spiritus  of  capons, 

Or  mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 
Distilled  per  se, 

Sal-alkali  o’  midge-tail  clippings, 

And  mony  mae.” 

“  Wae ’s  me  for  Johnny  Ged’s  Hole  now,’ 
Quo’  I ;  “if  that  thae  news  be  true, 

His  braw  calf-ward  where  gowans  grew, 

Sae  white  and  bonny, 

Nae  doubt  they  ’ll  rive  it  wi’  the  pleugh  ; 
They  ’ll  ruin  Johnny  !  ” 

The  creature  grained  an  eldritch  laugh, 

And  says  :  “  Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Ivirkyards  will  soon  be  tilled  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear  : 

They  ’ll  a’  be  trenched  wi’  mony  a  sheugh, 

In  twa-three  year. 

“  Whare  I  killed  ane  a  fair  strae  death, 

By  loss  o’  blood  or  want  o’  breath, 

This  night,  I ’m  free  to  tak  my  aith, 

That  Hornbook’s  skill 
Has  clad  a  score  i’  their  last  claith, 

By  drap  and  pill. 

“  An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 

Whase  wife’s  twa  nieves  were  scarce  weel-bred 
Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head, 

When  it  was  sair  ; 


94  DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed, 

But  ne’er  spak  mair. 

“  A  bonny  lass,  ye  ken  her  name, 

Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hoved  her  wame  ; 

She  trusts  hersel’,  to  hide  the  shame, 

To  Hornbook’s  care ; 

Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  harne, 

To  hide  it  there. 

“  A  country  laird  had  taen  the  batts, 

Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts  ; 

His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets, 

And  pays  him  well  — 

The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer-pets, 

Was  laird  himsel’, 

“  That ’s  just  a  swatch  o’  Hornbook’s  way  ; 

Tlius  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day, 

Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  and  slay, 

An ’s  weel  paid  for ’t ; 

Yet  stops  me  o’  my  lawfu’  prey 
Wi’  his  d — d  dirt. 

u  But  hark  !  I  ’ll  tell  you  of  a  plot, 

Though  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o*  t ; 

I’ll  nail  the  self-conceited  sot 
As  dead ’s  a  lierrin’ : 

Niest  time  we  meet,  I  ’ll  wad  a  groat, 

He  gets  his  fairin’ !  ” 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell, 


EPISTLE  TO  LAP  PAIR. 


95 


Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal, 
Which  raised  us  baith  : 

I  took  the  way  that  pleased  mysel’, 
And  sae  did  Death. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK, 

AN  OLD  SCOTTISH  BARD. 

\WTHILE  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green, 
f  And  paitricks  scraichin’  loud  at  e’en, 

And  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen, 

Inspire  my  Muse, 

This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien’ 

I  pray  excuse. 


On  Fasten-e’en  we  had  a  rockin', 

To  ca’  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin’ ; 
And  there  was  muckle  fun  and  jokin’, 

Ye  need  na  doubt ; 

At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin’ 

At  sang  about. 


There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 

Aboon  them  a’  it  pleased  me  best, 

That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 
To  some  sweet  wife  : 

It  thirled  the  heart-strings  through  the  breast, 
A’  to  the  life. 

I  *ve  scarce  heard  ought  described  sae  weel, 
What  generous  manly  bosoms  feel ; 


96 


EPISTLE  TO  LAP R AIK. 

Thought  I,  “  Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie’s  wark  ?  ” 

They  tauld  me ’t  was  an  odd  kind  chiel 
About  Muirkirk. 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear ’t, 

And  sae  about  him  there  I  spier ’t, 

Then  a’  that  kent  him  round  declared 
He  had  ino-ine, 

O  7 

That  nane  excelled  it,  few  cam  near ’t, 

It  was  sae  fine. 

That,  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale, 

And  either  douce  or  merry  tale, 

Or  rhymes  and  sangs  he ’d  made  himself 
Or  witty  catches, 

’Tween  Inverness  and  Teviotdale, 

He  had  few  matches. 

Then  up  I  gat,  and  swore  an  aitli, 

Though  I  should  pawn  my  plough  and  graith, 
Or  die  a  cadger  pownie’s  death 
At  some  dyke  back, 

A  pint  and  gill  I ’d  gie  them  baith 
To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  and  foremost,  I  should  tell 
Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 

I  to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

Though  rude  and  rou<rh. 

Yet  crooning  to  a  body’s  sell, 

Does  weel  eneugh. 


EPISTLE  TO  LAP K AIK.  37 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense, 

But  just  a  rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 

And  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

Yet,  what  the  matter  ! 

Whene’er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic  folk  may  cock  their  nose, 

And  say :  “  How  can  you  e’er  propose, 

You,  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang  ?  ” 

But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes. 

Ye  ’re  maybe  wrang. 

What ’s  a’  your  jargon  o’  your  schools, 

Your  Latin  names  for  horns  and  stools  ? 

If  honest  Nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs  your  grammars  ? 

Te  M  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

A  set  o’  dull  conceited  hashes, 

Confuse  their  brains  in  college-classes  ! 

They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses, 
Plain  truth  to  speak  ; 

And  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 
By  dint  o’  Greek  ! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o’  Nature’s  fire  ! 

That ’s  a’  the  learning  I  desire ; 

Then  though  I  drudge  through  dub  and  mire 

o  o  O 

At  pleugli  or  cart, 

VOL.  i.  7 


98 


EPISTLE  TO  LAPP  AIK. 

\ 

My  Muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

Oh  for  a  spunk  o’  Allan's  glee, 

Or  Fergmsson’s,  the  bauld  and  slee, 

Or  bright  Lapraik’s,  my  friend  to  be. 

If  I  can  hit  it ! 

That  would  be  lear  enough  for  me, 

If  I  could  get  it  ! 

Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 

Though  real  friends  I  b’lieve  are  few, 

Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou, 

1  ’se  no  insist, 

But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that ’s  true, 

I ’m  on  your  list. 

I  winna  blaw  about  mysel’ ; 

As  ill  I  like  my  flints  to  tell  ; 

But  friends  and  folk  that  wish  me  well, 
They  sometimes  roose  me  ; 

Though  I  maun  own,  as  monie  still 
As  far  abuse  me. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Maucliline  fair, 

I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there  ; 

We’se  gie  ae  night’s  discharge  to  Care, 

If  we  forgather, 

And  hae  a  swap  o’  rhymin’-ware 
Wi’  ane  anither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we  ’se  gar  him  clatter, 

And  kirsen  him  wi’  reekin’  water ; 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  LAPP  A  IK. 

Syne  we  ’ll  sit  down  and  tak  our  wliitter, 
To  cheer  our  heart ; 

And,  faith,  we  ’se  be  acquainted  better 
Before  we  part. 

Awa’  ye  selfish  warly  race, 

Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  and  grace, 
Even  love  and  friendship  should  give  place 
To  catch  the  plack  ! 

I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face, 

Nor  hear  your  crack. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

“  Each  aid  the  others,” 

Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms, 

My  friends,  my  brothers  ! 

But,  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 

As  my  auld  pen ’s  worn  to  the  grissle ; 

Twa  lines  frae  you  wad  gar  me  fissle, 

Who  am,  most  fervent, 

While  I  can  either  sing  or  whissle, 

Your  friend  and  servant. 

— ♦ — 

SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK, 

\\T  HILE  new-ca’d  kye  rowte  at  the  stake, 
And  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 
This  hour  on  e’enin’s  edge  I  take, 

To  own  I ’m  debtor, 


f)f* 


100  SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  L  APR  AIK. 

To  honest-hearted  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 

Forjeskit  sair,  wi’  weary  legs, 

Rattlin’  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs, 

Or  dealing  through  amang  the  naigs 
Their  ten-hours’  bite, 

My  awkwart  Muse  sair  pleads  and  begs 
I  would  na  write. 

The  tapetless  ramfeezl’d  hizzie, 

She ’s  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 

Quo’  she :  “  Ye  ken,  we *ve  been  sae  busy 
This  month  and  mair, 

That  troutli,  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 
And  something  sair.” 

Her  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad : 

“  Conscience,”  says  I,  “  ye  thowless  jad  ! 

I  ’ll  write,  and  that  a  hearty  blaud, 

This  very  night ; 

Sae  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

“  Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o’  hearts, 
Though  mankind  were  a  pack  o’  cartes, 
Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

In  terms  sae  friendly, 

Yet  ye  ’ll  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts, 

And  thank  him  kindl)  ?  ” 

Sae  1  gat  paper  in  a  blink, 

And  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink  : 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  LAPP  AIK.  10’ 

Quoth  I :  “  Before  I  sleep  a  wink, 

I  vow  I  ’ll  close  it ; 

And  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink, 

By  Jove  I  ’ll  prose  it !  ” 

Sae  I ’ve  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 

In  rhyme,  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither, 

Or  some  hotch-potch  that ’s  rightly  neither, 
Let  time  mak  proof; 

But  I  shall  scribble  down  some  blether, 

Just  clean  aff-loof. 

My  worthy  friend,  ne’er  grudge  and  carp, 

Though  fortune  use  you  hard  and  sharp ; 

Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland  harp 
Wi’  gleesome  touch  ; 

Ne’er  mind  how  Fortune  waft  and  warp — 
She ’s  but  a  b — h  ! 

She ’s  gien  me  monie  a  jirt  and  fleg, 

Sin’  I  could  striddle  owre  a  rig  ; 

But,  by  the  L — ,  though  I  should  beg 
Wi’  lyart  pow, 

I  ’ll  laugh,  and  sing,  and  shake  my  leg, 

As  lang ’s  I  doAv  ! 

Now  comes  the  sax-and-twentieth  simmer, 

I ’ve  seen  the  bud  upo’  the  thinner, 

Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer, 

F rae  year  to  year  ; 

But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kinuner, 

I,  Rob,  am  here. 


102  SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  LAPRAIK. 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  gent, 

Behint  a  kist  to  lie  and  sklent, 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi’  cent,  per  cent. 

And  muckle  wame, 

In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 
A  bailie’s  name  ? 

Or  is ’t  the  paughty,  feudal  thane, 

Wi’  ruffled  sark  and  glancing  cane, 

Wha  thinks  liimsel’  nae  sheep-shank  bane, 
But  lordly  stalks, 

While  caps  and  bonnets  aff  are  taen, 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

Oh  Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift ! 

Gie  me  o’  wit  and  sense  a  lift, 

Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift, 
Through  Scotland  wide  ; 

Wi’  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift, 

In  a’  their  pride  ! 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 

“  On  pain  o’  hell  be  rich  and  great,” 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate, 
Beyond  remead  ; 

But,  thanks  to  Heaven,  that ’s  no  the  gaet 
We  learn  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 

When  first  the  human  race  began  — 

“  The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 
Whate’er  he  be, 


EPISTLE  TO  GOLDIE.  1G3 

'T  is  lie  fulfils  great  Nature’s  plan, 

And  none  but  he  !  ” 

Oh  mandate  glorious  and  divine  ! 

The  followers  o’  the  ragged  Nine, 

Poor  thoughtless  devils  !  yet  may  shine 
In  glorious  light, 

While  sordid  sons* o’  Mammon’s  line 
Are  dark  as  night. 

Though  here  they  scrape,  and  squeeze,  and 
growl, 

Their  worthless  nievefu’  of  a  soul 

May  in  some  future  carcass  howl, 

The  forest’s  fright ; 

Or  in  some  day-detestin’  owl 
May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 

To  reach  their  native  kindred  skies, 

And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  and  joys. 

In  some  mild  sphere, 

Still  closer  knit  in  friendship’s  ties, 

Each  passing  year  ! 

— ♦ — 

EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  GOUDIE  OF  KILMARNOCK, 

ON  THE  PUBLICATION  OF  HIS  ESSAYS. 

rAH,  Goudie  !  terror  of  the  Whigs, 

Dread  of  black  coats  and  reverend  wigs, 


1 04 


EPISTLE  TO  G 0 U DIE. 

# 

Sour  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin’,  looks  back, 

Wishin’  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 
Wad  seize  you  quick. 

Poor  gapin’,  glowrin’  Superstition, 

Wae ’s  me  !  she ’s  in  a  sad  condition  ; 

Fie  1  bring  Black  Jock,  her  state-physicia 
To  see  her  water. 

Alas  !  there ’s  ground  o’  great  suspicion 
She  ’ll  ne’er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple, 

But  now  she ’s  got  an  unco  ripple  ; 

Haste,  gie  her  name  up  i’  the  chapel, 
Nigh  unto  death  ; 

See,  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple, 

And  gasps  for  breath. 

Enthusiasm ’s  past  redemption, 

Gane  in  a  galloping  consumption, 

Not  a’  the  quacks,  wi’  a’  their  gumption, 
Will  ever  mend  her. 

Iler  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption 
Death  soon  will  end  her. 

*T  is  you  and  Taylor  are  the  chief 
Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief, 

But  gin  the  L — ’s  ain  fouk  gat  leave, 

A  toom  tar-barrel 

And  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief, 

And  end  the  quarrel. 


THE  TWA  HERDS. 


105 


THE  TWA  HEEDS;  OE,  THE  HOLY  TULZIE 


II  a’  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 


Weel  fed  on  pastures,  orthodox, 
Wha  now  will  keep  ye  frae  the  fox, 


Or  worrying  tykes, 


Or  wha  will  tent  the  waits  and  crocks, 


About  the  dikes  ? 


The  twa  best  herds  in  a’  the  wast, 

That  e’er  gae  Gospel-horn  a  blast, 

These  five-and-twenty  simmers  past, 

Oh  dool  to  tell, 

Hae  had  a  bitter  black  outcast 
Atween  themsel’. 

Oh,  Moodie,  man,  and  wordy  Russell, 

How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle  ! 

Ye  ’ll  see  how  New-Light  herds  will  whistle, 
And  think  it  tine  : 

The  L — ’s  cause  ne’er  got  sic  a  twistle 
Sin’  I  hae  min’. 

Oh,  sirs  !  wliae’er  wad  hae  expeckit, 

Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit, 

Ye  wha  were  ne’er  by  lairds  respeckit, 

To  wear  the  plaid, 

But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit, 

To  be  their  guide. 

What  llock  wi’  Moodie’s  flock  could  rank, 
Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank  ! 


106  THE  TWA  HERDS. 

Nae  poisoned  sour  Arminian  stank 
He  let  them  taste, 

Frae  Calvin’s  well,  aye  clear,  they  drank  — 
Oh  sic  a  feast ! 

The  thummart,  wil’-cat,  brock,  and  tod, 
Weel  kenn’d  his  voice  through  a’  the  wood, 
He  smelt  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 

Baith  out  and  in, 

And  weel  he  liked  to  shed  their  bluid, 

And  sell  their  skin. 

What  herd  like  Russell  tolled  his  tale, 

His  voice  was  heard  through  muir  and  dale. 
He  kenn’d  the  L — ’s  sheep,  ilka  tail, 

O’er  a’  the  height, 

And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale, 

At  the  first  si<rht. 

O 

He  fine  a  mangy  sheep  could  scrub, 

Or  nobly  fling  the  Gospel  club, 

And  New-Light  herds  could  nicely  drub, 

Or  pay  their  skin  ; 

Could  shake  them  o’er  the  burnino;  dub, 

Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa  —  oh,  do  I  live  to  see ’t, 

Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet, 

And  names  like  villain,  hypocrite, 

Ilk  i tlier  gi’en, 

While  New-Light  herds,  wi’  laughin’  spite, 
Say  neither ’s  bein’ ! 


THE  TWA  HERDS. 

A’  ye  wha  tent  the  Gospel  fauld, 

There ’s  Duncan,  deep,  and  Peebles,  shaul, 
But  chiefly  thou,  apostle  Auld, 

We  trust  in  thee, 

That  thou  wilt  work  them,  liet  and  cauld, 
Till  they  agree. 

Consider,  sirs,  how  we  ’re  beset ; 

There ’s  scarce  a  new  herd  that  we  get, 
But  comes  frae  ’mans:  that  cursed  set 
I  winna  name  ; 

I  hope  frae  heaven  to  see  them  yet 
In  fiery  flame. 

Dalrymple  has  been  lang  our  file, 

M’Gill  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae, 

And  that  cursed  rascal  ca’d  M’Quhae, 

And  baith  the  Shaws, 

That  aft  liae  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi’  vengefu’  paws. 

Auld  Wodrow  lariir  has  hatched  mischief, 

O  7 

We  thought  aye  death  wad  bring  relief, 
But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 

A  chield  wha  ’ll  soundly  buff  our  beef ; 

I  meikle  dread  him. 

And  monie  a  ane  that  I  could  tell, 

Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 

Forby  turn-coats  amang  oursel’ ; 

There ’s  Smith  for  ane, 


107 


108  EPISTLE  TO  SIMPSON. 

I  doubt  lie ’s  but  a  gray-nick  quill, 

And  that  ye  ’ll  fin’. 

Oh  a’  ye  flocks  o’er  a’  the  hills, 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors,  and  fells, 

Come,  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills 
To  cowe  the  lairds, 

And  get  the  brutes  the  powers  themsels 
To  choose  their  herds. 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance, 

And  Learning  in  a  woody  dance, 

And  that  fell  cur  ca’d  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair, 

Be  banished  o’er  the  sea  to  France  : 

Let  him  bark  there. 

Then  Shaw’s  and  D’rymple’s  eloquence, 
M’Gill’s  close  nervous  excellence, 

M’Quhae’s  pathetic  manly  sense, 

And  guid  M’Math, 

A  Vi’  Smith,  wha  through  the  heart  can  glance, 
May  a’  pack  aff. 

— « — 

TO  WILLIAM  S[IMPSON], 

OCHILTREE. 

GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie ; 

W  i’  gratefu’  heart  I  thank  you  brawly ; 


EPISTLE  TO  SIMPSON.  109 

Though  I  maun  say ’t,  I  wad  be  silly, 

And  unco  vain, 

Should  I  believe,  my  coaxin’  billie, 

Your  flatterin’  strain. 

But  I  ’se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 

I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented 
On  my  poor  Musie  ; 

Though  in  sic  phrasin’  terms  ye ’ve  penned  it 
I  scarce  excuse  ye. 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel, 

Should  I  but  dare  a  hope  to  speel 
AVI’  Allan  or  wi’  Gilbert  field, 

The  braes  o’  fame  ; 

Or  Fergusson,  the  writer  chiel, 

A  deathless  name. 

(Oh,  Fergusson  !  thy  glorious  parts 
Ill  suited  law’s  dry  musty  arts  ! 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts. 

Ye  E’nbrugh  gentry ; 

The  tithe  o’  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 
Wad  stowed  his  pantry  !) 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i’  my  head, 

Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a  screed, 

As  whiles  they  ’re  like  to  be  my  dead, 

(Oh  sad  disease !) 

I  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed  ; 

It  cries  me  ease. 

O 


110  £l,i  ZSTLE  TO  SIMP  SOX. 

Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu’  fain, 

She  ’s  gotten  poets  o’  her  ain, 

Chiels.wha  their  chanters  winna  hain, 
But  tune  their  lays, 

Till  echoes  a’  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 

To  set  her  name  in  measured  style  ; 

She  lay  like  some  unkenn’d-of  isle 
Beside  New  Holland, 

Or  wliare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 
Besouth  Magellan. 

Ramsay  and  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  and  Tay  a  lift  aboon  ; 
Yarrow  and  Tweed,  to  monie  a  tune, 
Owre  Scotland  rings ; 

While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  and  Doon, 
Naebody  sings. 

Th’  Illissus,  Tiber,  Thames,  and  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu’  line  ; 

But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine, 

And  cock  your  crest, 

We  ’ll  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 
Up  wi’  the  best ! 

We  ’ll  sing  auld  Coila’s  plains  and  fells, 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi’  heather-bells, 
Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  and  dells, 
Where  (dorious  Wallace 

O 


EPISTLE  TO  SIMPSON. 

Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southron  billies. 

At  Wallace’  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood  ! 

Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 
By  Wallace’  side, 

Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod, 

Or  glorious  died  ! 

O  sweet  are  Coda’s  haughs  and  woods 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds, 
And  jinkin’  hares,  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy, 

While  through  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

o 

With  wailfu’  cry  ! 

Even  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me, 
When  winds  rave  through  the  naked  tree  ; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 
Are  hoary  gray ; 

Or  blinding  drifts  wild  furious  flee, 
Darkening  the  day  ! 

O  Nature  !  a’  thy  shows  and  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  ! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi’  life  and  light, 

Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 

Till  by  himsel’  he  learned  to  wander. 


11) 


EPISTLE  TO  SIMPS  ON. 


1  12 

Adown  some  trotting  burn’s  meander, 

And  no  think  lang  ; 

()  sweet,  to  stray  and  pensive  ponder 
A  heartfelt  sang ! 

The  war’ly  race  may  drudge  and  drive, 

Hog-shouther,  j undie,  stretch  and  strive; 

Let  me  fair  Nature’s  face  descrive, 

And  I  wi’  pleasure, 

Shall  let  the  busy  grumbling  hive 
Bum  owre  their  treasure. 

Fareweel,  “  my  rhyme-composing  britlier  ! 

We ’ve  been  owre  lang  unkenn’d  to  ither  : 

Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal ; 

May  Envy  wallop  in  a  tether, 

Black  fiend  infernal ! 

While  Highlandmen  hate  tolls  and  taxes  ; 

While  moorlan’  herds  like  guid  fat  braxies 

While  terra  firma  on  her  axis 
Diurnal  turns, 

Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  and  practice, 

In  Robert  Burns. 


postscript. 

My  memory ’s  no  worth  a  preen  , 

I  had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 
By  this  New  Light, 


EPISTLE  TO  SIMPSON.  113 

T>out  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 
Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans 
At  grammar,  logic,  and  sic  talents, 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance, 
Or  rules  to  gie, 

But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain  braid  lallans. 
Like  you  or  me. 

In  tliae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon. 

Just  like  a  sark,  or  pair  o’  shoon, 

Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon 
Gaed  past  their  viewing, 

And  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

They  gat  a  new  one. 

This  passed  for  certain  —  undisputed ; 

It  ne’er  cam  i’  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 

Till  chi  els  gat  up,  and  wad  confute  it, 

And  ca’d  it  wrang : 

And  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  well  learned  upo’  the  beuk, 

Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk  ; 

For ’t  was  the  auld  moon  turned  a  neuk. 

And  out  o’  sight, 

And  backl ins-cornin’,  to  the  leuk 
She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  denied  —  it  was  affirmed  ; 

The  herds  and  hirsels  were  alarmed  ; 

VOL.  i.  8 


114 


EPISTLE  TO  SIMPSON. 


The  reverend  gray-beards  raved  and  stormed. 
That  beardless  laddies 

Should  think  they  better  were  informed 
Than  their  auld  daddies. 

Frae  less  to  mair,  it  gaed  to  sticks ; 

Frae  words  and  aiths  to  clours  and  nicks, 

And  mony  a  fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi’  hearty  crunt ; 

And  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks, 

Were  hanged  and  brunt. 

This  game  was  played  in  monie  lands, 

And  Auld-Light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 

That,  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 
Wi’  nimble  shanks, 

Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands, 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  New-Light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe, 

Folk  thought  them  ruined  stick-and-stowe, 

Till  now  amaist  on  every  knowe 
Ye  ’ll  find'ane  placed  ; 

And  some  their  New-Light  fair  avow, 

Just  quite  barefaced. 

Nae  doubt  the  Auld-Light  flocks  are  bleatin' ; 

Their  zealous  herds  are  vexed  and  sweatin’ ; 

Mysel’  I ’ve  even  seen  them  greetin’ 

Wi’  girnin’  spite, 

To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lied  on 
By  word  and  write. 


HOLY  WILLIE. 


115 


But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  loons  ! 

Some  Aul(l-Light  herds  in  neebor  towns 

Are  mind’t  in  things  they  ca’  balloons 
To  tak  a  flight, 

And  stay  ae  month  among  the  moons, 

And  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them  ; 

And  when  the  auld  moon 's  gaun  to  lea’e  them, 

The  hindmost  shaird,  they  ’ll  fetch  it  wi’  them, 
Just  i’  their  pouch, 

And  when  the  New-Light  billies  see  them, 

I  think  they  ’ll  crouch  ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a’  this  clatter 

Is  naething  but  a  “  moonshine  matter  ;  ” 

But  though  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 
In  logic  tulzie, 

I  hope  we  bardies  ken  some  better 
Than  mind  sic  brulzie. 


♦ 


HOLY  WILLIE’S  PRAYER. 


II  Thou,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 


Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel’, 
Sends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  hell, 
A’  for  thy  glory, 

And  no  for  ony  guid  or  ill 

They ’ve  done  afore  thee  ! 


116 


HOLY  WILLIE. 


I  bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might, 
Whan  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night, 
That  I  am  here  afore  thy  sight, 

For  gifts  and  grace, 

A  burnin’  and  a  shinin’  lio-ht 
To  a’  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 

That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation, 

I  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation 
For  broken  laws, 

Five  thousand  years  ’fore  my  creation, 
Through  Adam’s  cause. 


When  frae  my  mither’s  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  hae  plunged  me  in  hell, 

To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 
In  burning  lake, 

Whare  d — d  devils  roar  and  yell, 
Chained  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here,  a  chosen  sample, 

To  shew  thy  grace  is  great  and  ample ; 
I ’m  here  a  pillar  in  thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a  rock, 

A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example, 

To  a’  thy  flock. 

But  yet,  oh  L — !  confess  1  must, 

At  times  I ’m  fash’d  wi’  fleshly  lust ; 
And  sometimes  too  wi’  warldly  trust, 
Yile  self  gets  in  ; 


HOLY  WILLIE. 

But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 
Defiled  in  sin. 


Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn, 

Beset  thy  servant  e’en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 
’Cause  he ’s  sae  gifted  ; 

If  sae,  thy  hand  maun  e’en  be  borne, 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

L — ,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place, 

For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race  : 

But  G —  confound  their  stubborn  face, 

And  blast  their  name, 

Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 
And  public  shame. 

L — ,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton’s  deserts ; 

He  drinks,  and  swears,  and  plays  at  cartes, 
Yet  has  sae  monie  takin’  arts, 

Wi’  grit  and  sina’, 

Frae  G — ’s  ain  priests  the  people’s  hearts 
He  steals  awa’. 

And  whan  we  chasten’d  him  therefor, 

Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore, 

As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 
O’  laughin’  at  us  : 

Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

L — ,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  prayer, 
Against  the  presbyt’ry  of  Ayr  ; 


117 


118  EPITAPH  ON  HOLY  WILLIE. 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  L — ,  mak  it  bare 
Upo’  their  heads, 

L — ,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 

Oh  L — ,  my  G — ,  that  glib-tongued  Aiken, 
My  very  heart  and  saul  are  quakin’, 

To  think  how  we  stood  groanin’,  shakin’, 
And  swat  wi’  dread, 

While  he  wi’  hingin’  lip  and  snakin’, 

Held  up  his  head. 

L — ,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 

L — ,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 

And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  ’em, 

Nor  hear  their  prayer ; 

But  for  thy  people’s  sake  destroy  ’em, 

And  dinna  spare. 

But,  L — ,  remember  me  and  mine, 

Wi’  mercies  temp’ral  and  divine, 

That  I  lor  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 
Excelled  by  nane, 

And  a’  the  glory  shall  be  thine, 

Amen,  Amen  ! 


EPITAPH  ON  HOLY  WILLIE. 


LTERE  Holy  Willie’s  sair-worn  clay 
Taks  up  its  last  abode  ; 


/ 


THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  LAP R AIK.  11!) 

His  saul  lias  ta’en  some  other  way, 

I  fear  the  left-hand  road. 

Stop  !  there  he  is,  as  sure ’s  a  gun, 

Poor  silly  body,  see  him  ; 

Nae  wonder  he ’s  as  black ’s  the  grim’, 
Observe  wha ’s  standing;  wi’  him. 

Your  brunstane  devilship,  I  see, 

Has  got  him  there  before  ye  ; 

But  baud  your  nine-tail  cat  a  wee, 

Till  ance  you  ’ve  heard  my  story. 

Your  pity  I  will  not  implore, 

For  pity  ye  hae  nane  ; 

Justice,  alas  !  has  gien  him  o’er, 

And  mercy’s  day  is  gane. 

But  hear  me,  sir,  deil  as  ye  are, 

Look  something  to  your  credit ; 

A  coof  like  him  wad  stain  your  name, 

If  it  were  kent  ye  did  it. 

— ♦ — 

THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK. 

/  t  UID  speed  and  furder  to  you,  Johnny, 

*  Quid  health,  hale  ban’s,  and  weather  bonny; 

Now  when  ye  ’re-  nickan  down  fu’  canny 
The  staff  o’  bread, 

May  ye  ne’er  want  a  stoup  o’  bran’y 
To  clear  your  head. 


120  THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  LAP R AIK. 

May  Boreas  never  thrash  your  rigs, 

Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 

Sendin’  the  stuff  o’er  muirs  and  liaggs 
Like  drivin’  wrack  ; 

But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 
Come  to  the  sack. 

1  ’m  bizzie  too,  and  skelpin’  at  it, 

But  bitter,  daudin’  showers  hae  wat  it, 

Sae  my  auld  stumpie  pen  I  gat  it 
Wi’  muckle  wark, 

And  took  my  jocteleg  and  whatt  it, 

Like  ony  dark. 

It ’s  now  twa  month  that  I ’m  your  debtor, 
For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter, 
Abusin’  me  for  harsh  ill-nature 
On  holy  men, 

While  deil  a  hair  yourseP  ye  ’re  better, 

But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells, 

Let ’s  sing  about  our  noble  sel’s  ; 

We’ll  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 
To  help,  or  roose  us, 

But  browster-wives  and  whisky-stills, 

They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  sir,  I  winna  quat  it, 

And  if  ye  mak  objections  at  it, 

Then  han’  in  nieve  some  day  we  ’ll  knot  it, 
And  witness  take, 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  M MATH.  121 

And  when  wri’  usquebae  we’ve  wat.  it, 

It  winna  break. 

But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spared 
Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 

And  a’  the  vittel  in  the  yard, 

And  theekit  right, 

I  mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 
Ae  winter-night. 

Then  muse-inspirin’  aqua  vitm 

Shall  make  us  baith  sae  blithe  and  witty, 

Till  ye  forget  ye  ’re  auld  and  gutty, 

And  be  as  canty 

As  ye  were  nine  year  less  than  thretty  — 
Sweet  ane-and-twenty ! 

But  stooks  are  cowpit  wi’  the  blast, 

And  now  the  sinn  keeks  in  the  west, 

Then  I  maun  rin  amang  the  rest, 

And  quat  my  chanter ; 

Sae  I  subscribe  myself  in  haste 

Yours,  Rab  the  Ranter. 

— • — 

EPISTLE  TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  M’MATH. 

XYTIITLE  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cower 
*  *  To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin’  shower, 

Or  in  gulravage  rinnin’  scower 
To  pass  the  time, 

To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 
In  idle  rhyme. 


122  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  MM  A  Til. 

My  Musie,  tired  wi’  monie  a  sonnet 
On  gown,  and  ban’,  and  douce  black  bonnet, 
Is  grown  right  eerie,  now  she ’s  done  it, 

Lest  they  should  blame  her, 

And  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it, 

And  anathem  her. 

I  own ’t  was  rash,  and  rather  hardy, 

That  I,  a  simple  country  bardie, 

Should  meddle  wi’  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me, 

Can  easy,  wi’  a  single  wordie, 

Lowse  h —  upon  me. 

But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 

Their  sighin’,  cantin’,  grace-proud  faces, 
Their  three-mile  prayers,  and  hauf-mile  graces, 
Their  raxin’  conscience, 

Whase  greed,  revenge,  and  pride  disgraces 
Warn*  nor  their  nonsense. 

There ’s  Gawn,  misca’t  waur  than  a  beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honour  in  his  breast 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid ’s  the  priest 
Wha  sae  abus’t  him  ; 

And  may  a  bard  no  crack  his  jest 

What  way  they ’ve  use’t  him  ? 

See  him,  the  poor  man’s  friend  in  need, 

The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 

And  shall  his  fame  and  honour  bleed 
By  worthless  skellums, 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  M MATH.  123 

And  not  a  Muse  erect  her  head 
.  To  cowe  the  blellums  ? 

O  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire’s  darts, 

To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 

I ’d  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts, 

And  tell  aloud 

Their  jugglin’  hocus-pocus  arts 
To  cheat  the  crowd. 

G —  knows  I ’m  no  the  thinir  I  should  be, 

O  7 

Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be, 

But  twenty  times  I  rather  would  be 
An  atheist  clean, 

Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be, 

Just  tor  a  screen. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass, 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  lass ; 

But  mean  revenge,  and  malice  fausc, 
lie  ’ll  still  disdain, 

And  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws, 

Like  some  we  ken. 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  ; 

They  talk  o’  mercy,  grace,  and  truth, 

For  what  ?  to  gie  their  malice  skoutli 
On  some  puir  wight, 

And  hunt  him  down,  o’er  right  and  ruth, 

To  ruin  straight. 

All  hail,  Religion  !  maid  divine  ! 

Pardon  a  Muse  sae  mean  as  mine, 


124  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  M' MAT II. 

Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line, 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee  ; 

To  stigmatise  false  friends  of  thine 
Can  ne’er  defame  thee. 

Though  blotch’t  and  foul  wi’  mony  a  stain, 
And  far  unworthy  of  thy  train, 

With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 
To  join  with  those 
Who  boldly  daur  thy  cause  maintain 
In  spite  o’  foes  : 

In  spite  o’  crowds,  in  spite  o’  mobs, 

In  spite  o’  undermining  jobs, 

In  spite  o’  dark  banditti  stabs 
At  worth  and  merit, 

By  scoundrels,  even  wi’  holy  robes, 

But  hellish  spirit. 

O  Ayr  !  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 

Within  thy  presbyterial  bound 
A  candid  liberal  band  is  found 
Of  public  teachers, 

As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renowned, 

And  manly  preachers. 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  named  ; 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  famed  ; 

And  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine ’s  blamed 
(Which  gies  you  honour), 

Even,  sir,  by  them  your  heart ’s  esteemed, 
And  winning  manner. 

o 


VERSES  TO  A  MOUSE.  125 

Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  ta’en, 

And  if  impertinent  I  've  been, 

Impute  it  not,  good  sir,  in  ane 

Whase  heart  ne’er  wranged  ye. 
Hut  to  his  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belanged  ye. 


TO  A  MOUSE, 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785. 

~V\TEE,  sleekit,  cow’rin’,  tim’rous  beastie, 
*  *  Oh  what  a  panic ’s  in  thy  breastie  ! 

Thou  need  na  start  awa’  sae  hasty, 

Wi’  bickering  brattle  ! 

I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee, 

Wi’  murd’ring  pattle  ! 

I ’m  truly  sorry  man’s  dominion 

Has  broken  Nature’s  social  union, 

And  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 

At  me,  thy  poor  earthborn  companion, 

And  fellow-mortal  ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 

What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  I 

A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 
’S  a  sma’  request : 

I  ’ll  get  a  blcssin’  wi’  the  laive, 

And  never  miss ’t  1 


126  VERSES  TO  A  MOUSE. 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 

Its  silly  wa’s  the  win’s  are  strewin’  ! 

And  naethino;  now  to  bio;  a  new  ane 
0’  foggage  green, 

And  bleak  December’s  winds  ensuin’, 
Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 

And  weary  winter  coinin’  fast, 

And  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  passed 
Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o’  leaves  and  stibble, 

Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 

Now  thou ’s  turned  out  for  a’  thy  trouble 
But  house  or  hald, 

To  thole  the  winter’s  sleety  dribble, 

And  cranreueh  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 

The  best-laid  schemes  o’  mice  and  men, 
Gang  aft  a-gley, 

And  lea’e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain 
For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi’  me  ! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 

But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e’e, 

On  prospects  drear  ! 

And  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  jmess  and  fear. 

O 


HALLOWEEN. 


127 


HALLOWEEN. 

“  Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 

The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  ; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art.” 

Goldsmith 

TTPON  that  night,  when  fairies  light 
^  On  Cassilis  Downans  dance, 

Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance  ; 

Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta’en, 

Beneath  the  moon’s  pale  beams, 

There,  up  the  Cove  to  stray  and  rove, 

Am  a  no;  the  rocks  and  streams 
To  sport  that  night, 

Amano-  the  bonnie,  winding  banks, 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin’,  clear, 
Where  Bruce  ance  ruled  the  martial  ranks. 

And  shook  his  Carrick  spear, 

Some  merry,  friendly,  country-folks 
Too-ether  did  convene, 

To  burn  their  nits,  and  pou  their  stocks, 
And  baud  their  Halloween 

Fu’  blithe  that  night. 

The  lasses  feat,  and  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they  ’re  fine  ', 
Their  faces  blithe,  fu’  sweetly  kythe, 

Hearts  leal,  and  warm,  and  kin’ : 

The  lads  sae  trig,  wi’  wooer-babs 
Weel  knotted  on  their  garten, 


128 


HALLOWEEN. 

Some  unco  blate,  and  some  wi’  gabs 
Gar  lasses’  hearts  gang  startin’ 

Whiles  fast  at  night. 

Then,  first  and  foremost,  through  the  kail. 
Their  stocks  maun  a’  be  sought  ance  ; 

They  steek  their  een,  and  graip,  and  wale, 
For  muckle  anes  and  straught  anes. 

Poor  hav’rel  Will  fell  aff  the  drift, 

And  wandered  through  the  bow-kail ; 

And  pou’t,  for  want  o’  better  shift, 

A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow’t  that  night. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane, 
They  roar  and  cry  a’  throu’ther  ; 

The  very  wee  things,  todlin’,  rin 
Wi’  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther  : 

And  gif  the  custoe ’s  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi’  joctelegs  they  taste  them  ; 

Syne  eozily  aboon  the  door, 

Wi’  cannie  care,  they ’ve  placed  them 
To  lie  that  night. 

The  lasses  staw  frae  ’mang  them  a’ 

To  pou  their  stalks  o’  corn  ; 

But  Rub  slips  but,  and  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn  : 

lie  grippet  Nelly  hard  and  fast ; 

Loud  skirled  a’  the  lasses  ; 

But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kuittlin’  in  the  fause-house 
Wi’  him  that  night. 


HALLOWEEN. 

The  auld  guid  wife’s  weel-hoordit  nits 
Are  round  and  round  divided  ; 

And  mon)’  lads’  and  lasses’  fates 
Are  there  that  night  decided  : 

Some  kindle  couthie,  side  by  side, 

And  burn  thegither  trimly  ; 

Some  start  awa’  wi’  saucy  pride, 

And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 
Fu’  high  that  night. 

o  o 

Jean  slips  in  twa  wi’  tentie  e’e  ; 

Wha ’t  was,  she  wadna  tell ; 

But  this  is  Jock,  and  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  liersel’ : 

He  bleezed  owre  her,  and  she  owre  him. 
As  they  wad  never  mail*  part ; 

Till,  fuff!  he  started  up  the  lum, 

And  Jean  had  e’en  a  sair  heart 
To  see ’t  that  night. 

<D 

Poor  Willie,  wi’  his  bow-kail  runt, 

Was  brunt  wi’  primsie  JVIallie ; 

And  M  iry,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt, 
To  be  compared  to  Willie. 

Mall’s  nit  lap  out  wi’  pridefu’  fling, 

And  her  ain  fit  it  brunt  it ; 

While  Wrillie  lap,  and  swore,  by  jing, 

’T  was  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night. 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min’, 

She  pits  liersel’  and  Rob  in  ; 

In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

VOL.  I.  9 


129 


TTALL  0  WEEN. 


130 


Till  white  in  ase  they  're  sobbin*. 

Nell’s  heart  was  dancin’  at  the  view, 
She  whispered  Rob  to  leuk  for ’t : 

Rob  stowlins  prie’d  her  bonny  mou* 
Fn’  cozie  in  the  neuk  for ’t, 

Unseen  that  night. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 
Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell  ; 

She  lea’es  them  gashin’  at  their  cracks 
And  slips  out  by  hersel’ : 

She  through  the  vard  the  nearest  tak» 
And  to  the  kiln  she,  goes  then, 

And  darlclins  graipit  for  the  banks, 
And  in  the  blue-clue  throws  then, 
Right  fear’t  that  night. 

And  aye  she  win’t,  and  aye  she  swat, 
I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin’ ; 

Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 
Guid  L —  !  but  she  was  quakin’ ! 

But  whether ’t  Avas  the  deil  hiinsel’, 

Or  whether ’t  was  a  bauk-en’, 

Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  na  Avait  on  talkin’ 

To  spier  that  night. 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  granny  says  : 
u  Will  ye  go  Avi’  me,  granny  ? 

I  ’ll  eat  the  apple  at  the  glass 
I  gat  frae  Uncle  Johnny:” 

She  fuff’t  her  pipe  Avi’  sic  a  lunt, 

In  wrath  she  Avas  sae  vap’rin’. 


HALL  0  WEEN. 

She  notic’t  na,  an  aizle  brunt 
Her  braw  new  Avorset  apron 

Out  through  that  night. 

“  Ye  little  skelpie-limmer’s  face  ! 

I  daur  you  try  sic  sportin’, 

As  seek  the  foul  thief  ony  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  : 

Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  o-et  a  siirht ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it ; 

For  mony  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fri<dit, 
And  lived  and  died  deleeret 
On  sic  a  nisdit. 

O 

I 

“Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor  — 

I  mind ’t  as  Aveel ’s  yestreen, 

1  Avas  a  gilpey  then,  T ’m  sure 
I  AAras  na  past  fifteen  : 

The  simmer  had  been  cauld  and  AArat, 
And  stuff  Avas  unco  <xreen  : 

And  aye  a  rantin’  kirn  Ave  gat, 

And  just  on  IlalloAveen 

It  fell  that  niodit. 

O 

“  Our  stibble-rig  Avas  Rab  M’Graen. 

O  t 

A  clever,  sturdy  falloAv  : 

Ills  sin  gat  Eppie  Sim  aau’  Avean, 

That  lived  in  Aehmacalla  : 
lie  gat  hemp-seed,  I  mind  it  Aveel, 
And  he  made  unco  light  o’ ’t ; 

But  mony -a  day  Avas  by  liimsel’, 

He  AAras  sae  sairly  frighted 
That  very  night.” 


131 


IS  2  HALLOWEEN. 

Then  up  gat  fechtin’  Jamie  Fleck, 

And  he  swore  by  his  conscience, 

That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck  ; 

F or  it  was  a’  but  nonsense. 

The  auld  guidman  rauglit  down  the  pock, 
And  out  a  handfu’  gied  him  ; 

Syne  bad  him  slip  frae  ’mang  the  folk, 
Some  time  when  nae  ane  see’d  him, 
And  try ’t  that  night. 

He  marches  through  aman^  the  stacks, 

O  O 

Though  he  was  something  sturtin  : 

O  o  ' 

The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  taks, 

And  haurls  at  his  curpin  ; 

And  every  now  and  then  he  says  : 

“  Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee, 

And  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass, 

Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee 
As  fast  this  night.” 

lie  whistled  up  Lord  Lennox’  march, 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery  ; 

Although  his  hair  began  to  arch, 

He  was  sae  fley’d  and  eerie  : 

Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak, 

And  then  a  grane  and  gruntle  ; 

He  by  his  shouther  ga’e  a  keek, 

And  tumbled  wi’  a  wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 

He  roared  a  horrid  murder-shout, 

In  dreadfu’  desperation  ! 

And  young  and  auld  cam  rinnin’  out, 


U ALL  0  WEEN .  133 

And  hear  the  sad  narration  : 
lie  swore  ’twas  hilchin  Jean  M’Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 

Till,  stop  —  she  trotted  through  them  a’  — 
And  wha  was  it  but  Grumphie 
Asteer  that  night  ! 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  hae  gaen, 

To  win  three  wechts  o’  naething; 

But  for  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in  : 

She  gies  the  herd  a  pickle  nits, 

And  twa  red-cheekit  apples, 

To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kipples 
That  very  night. 

She  turns  the  key  wi’  canny  thraw, 

And  owre  the  threshold  ventures  ; 

But  first  on  Sawny  gies  a  ca’, 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters  : 

A  ratton  rattled  up  the  wa’, 

And  she  cried,  “  L — ,  preserve  her  1  ” 

And  ran  through  midden-hole  and  a’, 

And  prayed  wi’  zeal  and  fervour, 

Fu’  fast  that  night. 

They  hoy’t  out  Will,  wi’  sair  advice  ; 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane  ; 

It  chanced,  the  stack  he  faddom’t  thrice. 
Was  timmer-propt  for  thrawin’ ; 
lie  taks  a  swirly  auld  moss  oak 
For  some  black,  grousome  carlin  ; 


184 


HALLOWEEN. 

And  loot  a  winze,  and  drew  a  stroke. 
Till  skin  in  blypes  cam  haurlin’ 

All's  nieves  that  niuht. 

D 


A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kittlin  ; 

But,  ocli  !  that  night,  amang  the  shaws, 
She  got  a  fearfu’  settlin’  ! 

She  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
And  owre  the  hill  gaed  serieven, 

Where  three  lairds’  lands  meet  at  a  burn. 
To  dip  her  left  sark -sleeve  in, 

W  as  bent  that  night. 

O 


Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays, 
As  through  the  glen  it  wimpPt ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  strays ; 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl’t ; 

Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 
Wi’  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 
Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night. 

Amang  the  brackens,  on  the  brae, 
Between  her  and  the  moon, 

The  deil,  or  else  an  outler  quev, 

Gat  up  and  gae  a  croon : 

Boor  Leezie’s  heart  maist  lap  the  hool  ; 

Near  lav’rock-height  she  jumpit, 

But  mist  a  fit,  and  in  the  pool 
Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi’  a  plunge  that  night. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE.  135 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  luggies  three  are  ranged 

And  every  time  great  care  is  ta’en 
To  see  them  duly  changed  : 

Auld  Uncle  John,  wha  wedlock’s  joys 
Sin’  Mar’s  year  did  desire, 

Because  he  gat  the  toom  dish  thrice 
lie  heaved  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  and  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  did  11a  weary  ; 

And  unco  tales,  and  funny  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  and  cheery  ; 

Till  buttered  so’ns,  wi’  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a’  their  gabs  a-steerin’  ; 

Syne,  wi’  a  social  glass  o’  strunt, 

They  parted  ad*  careerin’ 

Fu’  blithe  that  night. 

— ♦ — 

SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A  BROTHER  COKT. 

Auld  Neibok, 

T  ’M  three  times  doubly  o’er  your  debtor, 

-*■  For  your  auld-farrant,  frien’ly  letter  : 

Though  I  maun  say ’t,  I  doubt  ye  flatter, 

Ye  speak  sae  fair  : 

For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymin’  clatter 
Some  less  maun  sair. 


136  SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE. 

Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle  ; 

Lang  may  your  elbock  jink  and  diddle, 

To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 
O’  war’ly  cares, 

Till  bairns’  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld  gray  hairs. 

But,  Davie  lad,  I  ’in  red  ye  ’re  glaikit ; 

I ’m  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hae  negleckit ; 

And  gif  it ’s  sae,  ye  sud  be  Ticket, 

Until  ye  fyke  ; 

Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne’er  be  faiket, 

Be  liain’t  wha  like. 

For  me,  I ’m  on  Parnassus’  brink, 

Hivin’  the  words  to  gar  them  clink  ; 

Whyles  daez’t  wi’  love,  whvles  daez’t  wi’  drink, 
Wi’  jads  or  masons  ; 

And  whyles,  but  aye  owre  late,  I  think, 

Braw  sober  lessons. 

Of  a’  the  thoughtless  sons  o’  man, 

Conimen’  me  to  the  bardie  clan  ; 

Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

O’  rhymin’  clink, 

The  devil-hae ’t  (that  I  sud  ban  !) 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o’  livm  , 

Nae  cares  to  gie  us  joy  or  grievin’ ; 

But  just  the  pouehie  put  the  nieve  in, 

And  while  ought ’s  there, 


TIIE  BRAES  O'  BALL  0 CUM  YLE.  137 

Then  liiltie  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievln*, 

And  fash  nae  mail’. 

Leeze  me  on  rhyme  !  it ’s  aye  a  treasure, 

My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure, 

At  hame,  a-fiel’,  at  wark,  or  leisure  ; 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie  ! 
Though  rough  and  raploch  be  her  measure, 
She ’s  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie  : 

The  warl’  may  play  you  monie  a  shavie  ; 

But  for  the  Muse,  she  ’ll  never  leave  ye, 
Though  e’er  sae  puir, 

Na,  even  though  limpin’  wi’  the  spavie 
Frae  door  to  door. 


THE  BEAES  0’  BALLOCHMYLE. 

nPIIE  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 
The  flowers  decayed  on  Catrine  lea, 
Nae  lav’rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  Nature  sickened  on  the  ee. 
Through  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 
Hersel’  in  beauty’s  bloom  the  while, 
And  aye  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang, 
Fareweel  the  Braes  o’  Balloclimyle  ! 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers, 
Again  ye  ’ll  flourish  fresh  and  fair  ; 


138  MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  Avith’ring  bowel's, 
Again  ye  ’ll  charm  the  vocal  air. 

But  here,  alas  !  for  me  nae  mair 

Shall  birdie  charm,  or  tlow’ret  smile ; 
Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 

Fareweel,  fareweel !  sweet  Ballochmyle 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 


A  DIKGE. 


~Y\/"IIEN  chill  November’s  surly  blast 
"  "  Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

1  spied  a  man  whose  aged  step 
Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care  ; 

His  face  was  furrowed  o’er  with  years, 
And  hoary  was  his  hair. 


“  Yroung  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou  V  ” 

O  O  7 

Began  the  reverend  sage  : 

cD  o 

“  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasures  rage  ! 

Or  haply,  prest  Avitli  cares  and  Avoes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  Avander  forth,  Avitli  me,  to  mourn 
The  miseries  of  man. 


‘‘  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 
Outspreading  far  and  Avide, 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN.  139 

Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 
A  haughty  lordling’s  pride  : 

I ’ve  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 
Twice  forty  times  return, 

And  every  time  has  added  proofs 
That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

“  Oh,  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ; 

Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 

Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  ; 

Licentious  passions  burn  ; 

Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature’s  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

“  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood’s  active  might ; 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right  : 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn  ; 

Then  Age  and  Want — oh  ill-matched  pair  ! — 
Shew  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

“  A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  Pleasure’s  lap  carest ; 

Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 
Are  likewise  truly  blest. 

But,  oh  !  what  crowds  in  every  land, 

All  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 

Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn  — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


140  MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

“  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 
Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves 
Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ; 

And  man,  —  whose  heaven-erected  face 
The  smiles  of  love  adorn,  — 

Man’s  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

•k  See  yonder  poor,  o’erlaboured  wight, 
So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 

Who  be£S  a  brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn, 

Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 
And  helpless,  offspring  mourn. 

“  If  I ’m  designed  yon  lordling’s  slave  — 
By  Nature’s  law  designed  — 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E’er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 

If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 
His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

“  Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 
Disturb  thy  youthful  breast  ; 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 
Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 


THE  COT  TER' S  SA  T  UR  DA  Y  N I  GUT.  141 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

“  Oh,  Death  !  the  poor  man’s  dearest  friend  — 
The  kindest  and  the  best  ! 

Welcome  the  hour,  my  aged  limbs 
Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ! 

But,  oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn  !  ” 


♦ 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT  AIKEN,  ESQ. 


“  Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor.”  —  Gray. 


loved,  my  honoured,  much-respected 


friend  ! 


No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  ; 

With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend’s  esteem  and 
praise. 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequestered  scene  ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 

Ah  !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there, 


I  ween  ! 


142  THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  N  TO  TIT. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh  ; 

The  short’nino-  winter-day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 

The  black’ning  trains  o’  craws  to  their  re- 
pose  : 

The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labour  goes,  — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his 
hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 

And  weary,  o’er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hamc- 
ward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th’  expectant  wee  things,  toddlin’,  stacker 
through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi’  flichterin’  noise  and 

glee\ 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearthstane,  his  thriftie  wifie’s  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a’  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 

And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun’ : 
Some  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  town  : 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown. 
In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e’e, 
Comes  liame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new 
gown, 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGTIT.  143 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
And  each  for  other’s  weelfare  kindly  spiel’s  : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet ; 
Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  and  her  shears, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel ’s  the  new  — 
The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 

Their  master’s  and  their  mistress’s  command, 
The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey ; 

And  mind  their  labours  wi’  an  eydent  hand, 
And  ne’er,  though  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or 
play : 

“  And  oh  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 
And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night ! 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright !  ” 

But,  hark  !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door : 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o’er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care  inquires  his 
name, 


144  THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGT1T. 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 

Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it ’s  nae  wild, 
worthless  rake. 

Wi’  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 

A  strappin’  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother’s  eye  ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit ’s  no  ill-ta’en ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster’s  artless  heart  o’erflows  wi’ 

j° 

But  blate  and  lathefu’,  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 

The  mother,  wi’  a  woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  and  sae 
grave  : 

Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn ’s  respected  like 
the  lave. 

Oh  happy  love  !  —  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 
Oh  heartfelt  raptures  !  —  bliss  beyond  com¬ 
pare  ! 

I ’ve  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  :  — 
Tf  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 
spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

’T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the 
evening  srale. 

<U>  o 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT.  14 d 


Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjur’d  arts  !  dissembling 
smooth  ! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their  child  ? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction 
wild  ? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, — 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia’s  food  ; 
The  soupe  their  only  liawkie  does  afford, 

That  ’yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood  : 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain’d  kebbuck, 
fell, 

And  aft  he ’s  prest,  and  aft  he  ca’s  it  guid ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
flow  ’t  was  a  towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was  i’  the 
bell. 

The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
L’lie  sire  turns  o’er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha’  Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride  ; 
His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 

And  “  Let  us  worship  God  !  ”  he  says,  with  solemn 
air. 


VOL.  i. 


10 


I  -1 6  THE  COT  TER ’  S  SAT  URDA  Y  N1 CHT. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim 
Perhaps  Dundee’s  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs ,  worthy  of  the  name, 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heavenward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays  : 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 
The  tickled  ear  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise  ; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page  — 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  Avarfare  wage 
With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny  ; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging  ire  ; 

Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme  — 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  : 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  : 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped  : 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land  : 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 

And  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pronounced  by 
Heaven’s  command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven’s  Eternal 
King, 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT.  147 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  ; 
Hope  “  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,” 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 

While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion’s  pride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion’s  every  grace,  except  the  heart  ! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the 
soul ; 

And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  ofF  their  several  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest  : 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
That  He,  who  stills  the  raven’s  clamorous 
nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 

8ut.  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 
preside. 


148  THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGH l . 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  grandeur 
springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered 
abroad  : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kin<rs, 

“  An  honest  man ’s  the  noblest  work  of  God  ;  ” 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue’s  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  : 

What  is  a  lordling’s  pomp  ?  —  a  cumbrous 
load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ! 

Oh  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil  ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent, 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content ! 

And  oh  !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives 
prevent 

From  luxury’s  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 

Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 

And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved 
isle. 

Oh  Thou  !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  streamed  through  Wallace’s  undaunted 
heart, 

Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot’s  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL.  149 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 

Oh  never,  never,  Scotia’s  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  ! 

— « — 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

“  Oh  prince,  oh  chief  of  many  throned  powers, 

That  led  th’  embattled  sei*aphim  to  war  !  —  Milton. 

/~\II  thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee, 

Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  and  sootie, 

Closed  under  hatches, 

Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches  ! 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 

And  let  poor  d — d  bodies  be  ; 

I ’m  sure  sma’  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E’en  to  a  deil, 

To  skelp  and  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 

And  hear  us  sqiieel ! 

Great  is  thy  power,  and  great  thy  fame  ; 

Far  kenned  and  noted  is  thy  name  ; 

And  though  yon  lowin’  heugh’s  thy  hame, 
Thou  travels  far ; 

And,  faith  !  thou ’s  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  ranging:  like  a  roaring  lion, 

For  prey  a’  holes  and  corners  try  in’ ; 


T  50  ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

Wliyles  on  the  strong-winged  tempest  fiv in’, 
Tirlin’  the  kirks ; 

Wliyles  in  the  human  bosom  pryin’, 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

T ’ve  heard  my  reverend  grannie  say, 

In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 

Or  where  auld  ruined  castles  gray 
Nod  to  the  moon, 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wanderer’s  way 
Wi’  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  grannie  summon, 

To  say  her  prayers,  douce  honest  woman  1 

Aft  yont  the  dike  she ’s  heard  you  bummin’, 
Wi’  eerie  drone ; 

Or,  rustlin’,  through  the  boortrees  cornin’. 

Wi’  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter-night, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi’  sklentin’  Ihdit, 

•  ©  * 

Wi’  you,  mysel’,  I  gat  a  fright 
Ayont.  the  lough ; 

Ye,  like  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi’  waving  sough. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 

Each  bristled  hair  stood  like  a  stake, 

When  wi’  an  eldritch,  stoor  quaick  —  quaick  — 
Amang  the  springs, 

Awa’  ye  squattered,  like  a  drake, 

On  whistlin  o*  will  0’S. 

o  © 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  and  withered  hags, 

Tell  how  wi’  you,  on  ragweed  nags, 

They  skim  the  muirs  and  dizzy  crags, 

Wi’  wicked  speed  ; 

And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues 
Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi’  toil  and  pain, 
May  plunge  and  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain  ; 
For.  oh  !  the  yellow  treasure ’s  ta’en 
By  witching  skill ; 

And  dawtit,  twal-pint  Hawkie ’s  gaen 
As  yell ’s  the  bill. 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse, 

On  young  guidmen,  fond,  keen,  and  crouse, 
When  the  best  wark-lume  i’  the  house, 

By  cantrip  wit, 

Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse, 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
And  float  the  jinglin’  icy  boord, 

Then  water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord. 

By  your  direction  ; 

And  ’nighted  travellers  are  allured 
To  their  destruction. 

And  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk  is  : 
The  bleezin’,  curst,  mischievous  monkevs 
Delude  his  eyes, 


151 


152  ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

Till  in  some  miry  slough  lie  sunk  is, 
Ee’er  mair  to  rise. 

When  mason’s  mystic  word  and  grip, 

In  storms  and  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop. 
Or,  strange  to  tell  ! 

The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 
Aff  straught  to  h —  ! 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden’s  bonny  yard, 

When  youthfu’  lovers  first  Avere  paired, 
And  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shared, 
The  raptured  hour, 

Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flowery  swaird, 

In  shady  bower,1  — 

Then  you,  ye  auld  sneck-drawing  dog  l 
Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. 

And  played  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 
(Black  be  your  fa’ !) 

And  gied  the  infant  Avarld  a  sliog, 

’Maist  ruined  a’. 

D  ’ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz, 
Wi’  reekit  duds,  and  reestit  gizz, 

Ye  did  present  your  smootie  phiz 
’Mang  better  folk, 

1  This  verse  ran  originally  as  follows  :  — 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden’s  happy  scene, 

AVhen  strappin’  Adam’s  days  were  green, 
And  Eve  was  like  my  bonnie  .Jean, 

My  dearest  part. 

A  dancin’,  sweet,  young  handsome  quean. 
O'  guileless  heart. 


ADDREUS  TO  THE  DEIL. 


153 


And  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uzz 
Your  spitefu’  joke  ? 

And  how  ye  gat  him  i’  your  thrall, 

And  brak  him  out  o’  house  and  hall, 

While  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall, 

Wi’  bitter  claw, 

And  lows’d  his  ill-tongued,  wicked  scawl, 
Was  warst  ava  ? 

But  a’  your  doings  to  rehearse, 

Your  wily  snares  and  fee h tin’  fierce, 

Sin’  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 

Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

And  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye  ’re  think! n\ 
A  certain  bardie’s  rantin’,  drinkin’, 

Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin’ 

To  your  black  pit ; 

But,  faith  !  he  ’ll  turn  a  corner  jinkin’, 

And  cheat  you  yet. 

But  fire  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 

O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men’ ! 

Ye  aiblins  might —  I  dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake  — 
l ’m  wae  to  think  upo’  yon  den, 

Even  for  your  sake  ! 


154 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


ON  JOHN  DOVE, 

INNKEEPER,  MAUCHLINE. 

TTERE  lies  Johnny  Pigeon  ; 

What  was  his  religion  ? 

(j 

Wha  e’er  desires  to  ken, 

To  some  other  waiT 
Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pigeon  had  nane  1 

Strong  ale  was  ablution, 

Small  beer  persecution, 

A  dram  was  memento  mori ; 

But  a  full-flowing  bowl 
Was  the  joy  of  his  soul, 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 

— t — 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS: 

A  CANTATA. 


RECITATIVO. 


X\/^HEN  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird, 
Or  wavering  like  the  baukie-bird, 
Bedim  cauld  Boreas’  blast ; 

When  hailstanes  drive  wi’  bitter  skyte 
And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite, 

In  hoary  cranreuch  drest ; 

Ae  night  at  e’en  a  merry  core 
O’  randie,  gangrel  bodies, 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS.  155 

In  Poosie  Nansie’s  held  the  splore, 

To  drink  their  orra  duddies  : 

Wi’  quaffing  and  laughing 
They  ranted  and  they  sang  ; 

Wi’ jumping  and  thumping, 

The  vera  girdle  rang. 

First,  niest  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags, 

Ane  sat,  weel  braced  wi’  mealy  bags, 

And  knapsack  a’  in  order ; 

His  doxv  lay  within  his  arm, 

Wi’  usquebae  and  blankets  warm  — 

She  blinket  on  her  sodg;er  : 

And  aye  he  gies  the  tozie  drab 

The  tither  skelpin’  kiss,  -  * 

While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab 
Just  like  an  aumos  dish. 

Ilk  smack  still,  did  crack  still, 

Just  like  a  cadger’s  whip, 

Then  staggering  and  swaggering, 

He  roared  this  ditty  up. 

AIR. 

Tune — Soldiers'  Joy. 

I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars. 
And  shew  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I  come ; 
This  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that  other  in  a 
trench, 

When  welcoming;;  the  French  at  the  sound  of  the 

o 

drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 


150  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

My  ’prenticeship  I  past  where  my  leader  breathed 
his  last, 

When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights  of' 
Abram ; 

I  served  out  my  trade  when  the  gallant  game  was 
played, 

And  the  Morro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the 
drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

I  lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  the  floating-bat¬ 
teries, 

And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a  limb; 

Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  to  head 
fne, 

I ’d  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  a  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

And  now  though  I  must  beg,  with  a  wooden  arm 
and  leg, 

And  many  a. tattered  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 

I ’m  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle  and  my 
callet, 

As  when  I  used  in  scarlet  to  follow  a  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

What  though  with  hoary  locks  I  must  stand  the 
winter  shocks, 

Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  oftentimes  for  a 
home, 

When  the  t’other  bag  I  sell,  and  the  t’other  bot¬ 
tle  tell, 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


157 


1  could  meet  a  troop  of  li —  at  the  sound  of  a 
drum. 


Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 


RECITATIVO. 

lie  ended  ;  and  the  kebars  sheuk, 
Aboon  the  chorus  roar  ; 

While  frighted  rattons  backward  leuk, 
And  seek  the  benmost  bore. 

A  fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk, 

He  skirled  out  “  Encore  !  ” 

But  up  arose  the  martial  chuck, 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 


AIR. 

Tune — Soldier  Laddie. 

I  once  was  a  maid,  though  I  cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men  ; 
Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my  daddie 
No  wonder  I ’m  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  etc. 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering  blade, 

To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade  ; 

His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so  ruddy, 
Transported  I  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the  lurch, 
The  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of  the  church  ; 


- 


158  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

lie  ventured  the  soul,  and  I  risked  the  body  — 

’T  was  then  I  proved  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  etc. 

Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot, 

The  regiment  at  large  for  a  husband  I  got ; 

From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I  was  ready, 

I  asked  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

But  the  peace  it  reduced  me  to  beg  in  despair, 
Till  I  met  my  old  boy  at  a  Cunningham  fair  ; 

His  rags  regimental  they  fluttered  so  gaudy, 

My  heart  it  rejoiced  at  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

And  now  I  have  lived  —  I  know  not  how  long, 
And  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  and  a  song  ; 

But  whilst  witli  both  hands  I  can  hold  the  glass 
steady, 

Here  s  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor  Merrv  Andrew  in  the  neuk, 

Sat  guzzling  wi’  a  tinkler  hizzie  : 

They  mind ’t  na  wha  the  chorus  tonic. 

Between  themselves  they  were  sac  Dusy. 

At  length,  wi’  drink  and  courting  dizzy, 

He  stoitered  up  and  made  a  face  ; 

Then  turned,  and  laid  a  smack  on  Grizzie, 

Syne  tuned  his  pipes  wi’  grave  grimace. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


159 


AIR. 

Tone  —  Auld  Sir  Symon. 

Sir  Wisdom ’s  a  fool  when  lie ’s  fou, 
Sir  Knave  is  a  fool  in  a  session  ; 

He ’s  there  but  a  ’prentice  I  trow, 

But  I  am  a  fool  by  profession. 

My  grannie  she  bought  me  a  beuk, 
And  I  held  awa’  to  the  school  ; 

I  fear  I  my  talent  misteuk, 

But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a  fool  ? 

For  drink  I  would  venture  my  neck, 
A  hizzie ’s  the  half  o’  my  craft, 

But  what  could  ye  other  expect 
Of  ane  that ’s  avowedly  daft  ? 

I  ance  was  tied  up  like  a  stirk, 

For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffin’ ; 

I  ance  was  abused  in  the  kirk, 

For  touzling  a  lass  i’  my  daffin. 

Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport, 
Let  naebody  name  wi’  a  jeer  ; 

There ’s  even,  I ’m  tauld,  i’  the  court 
A  tumbler  ca’d  the  Premier. 

Observed  ye,  yon  reverend  lad 
Maks  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ? 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad  — 
It’s  rivalship  just  i’  the  job. 


1  GO  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

And  now  my  conclusion  I  ’ll  tell, 

For  faith  I’m  confoundedly  dry; 
The  chiel  that ’s  a  iool  for  himsel’, 
Guid  L — !  he ’s  far  dafter  than  I. 


RECITATIVO. 

Then  niest  outspak  a  raucle  carlin, 

Wha  kent  fu’  weel  to  cleek  the  sterling, 

For  monie  a  pursie  she  had  hooked, 

And  had  in  monie  a  well  been  ducked. 

Her  dove  had  been  a  Highland  laddie, 

But  weary  fa’  the  waefu’  wooilie  ! 

AY  i’  sighs  and  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Highlandman. 

AIR. 

Tune  —  0  an ’  ye  were  dead,  Guidman. 

A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born, 

The  Lawland  laws  he  held  in  scorn, 

But  he  still  was  faithfu’  to  his  clan, 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing,  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandman 
Sing,  ho  my  braw  John  Highlandman  ! 
There ’s  not  a  lad  in  a’  the  lan’ 

Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

With  his  philabeg  and  tartan  plaid, 

And  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side, 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS . 


lti 


The  ladies’  hearts  he  did  trepan, 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  etc. 

We  ranged  a’  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 

And  lived  like  lords  and  ladies  gay; 

For  a  Lawland  face  lie  feared  none, 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  etc. 

They  banished  him  beyond  the  sea, 

But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 

Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran, 

Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  etc. 

But,  oh  !  they  catched  him  at  the  last, 

And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  last ; 

My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 

They ’ve  hanged  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Singe,  hey,  etc. 

And  now  a  widow,  I  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne’er  return ; 

No  comfort  but  a  hearty,  can, 

When  1  think  on  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  etc. 


HECITATIVO. 

A  pigmy  scraper,  wi’  his  fiddle, 

Wha  used  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle, 

11 


VOL.  I. 


I 


162 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

Her  strappin’  limb  and  gaucy  middle 
(He  reached  na  higher) 
Had  holed  his  heartie  like  a  riddle, 
And  blawn ’t  on  fire. 

Wi’  hand  on  haunch,  and  upward  e’e, 
He  crooned  his  gamut,  one,  two,  three* 
Then  in  an  arioso  key, 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  off  wi’  allegretto  glee 
His  giga  solo. 


AIR. 

Tune —  Whistle  owre  the  lave  o’  H. 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear, 

And  go  wi’  me  and  be  my  dear, 

And  then  your  every  care  and  fear 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’ ’t. 

CHORUS. 

I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 

And  a’  the  tunes  that  e’er  I  played. 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid, 
Was  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’ ’t. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we  ’se  be  there, 
And  oh  !  sae  nicely ’s  we  will  fare  ; 
We’ll  bouse  about  till  Daddy  Care 
Sings  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’ ’t. 

I  am,  etc. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we  ’ll  pyke, 

And  sun  oursel’s  about  the  dike, 

And  at  our  leisure,  when  ye  like, 

We  ’ll  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’ ’t 

I  am,  etc. 

But  bless  me  wi’  your  heaven  o’  charms. 
And  while  I  kittle  hair  on  thairms, 
Hunger,  cauld,  and  a’  sic  harms, 

May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’ ’t. 

I  am,  etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

tier  charms  had  struck  a  sturdy  caird, 
As  weel  as  poor  gut-scraper  ; 

He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard, 

And  draws  a  rusty  rapier. 

He  swore  by  a’  was  swearing  worth, 

To  speet  him  like  a  pliver, 

Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 
Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi’  ghastly  e’e,  poor  Tweedle-dee 
Upon  his  hunkers  bended, 

And  prayed  for  grace  wi’  ruefu’  face, 
And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 

But  though  his  little  heart  did  grieve 
When  round  the  tinkler  prest  her, 

He  feigned  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve, 

When  thus  the  caird  addressed  her : 


IfiS 


164 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


AIR. 

Tune  —  Clout  the  Caudron. 

My  bonny  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinkler  is  my  station. 

1  ’ve  travelled  round  all  Christian  ground 
In  this  my  occupation  : 

I ’ve  ta’en  the  gold,  I ’ve  been  enrolled 
In  many  a  noble  squadron  : 

But  vain  they  searched,  when  off  I  marched 
To  go  and  clout  the  caudron. 

I  Ve  ta’en  the  gold,  etc. 

Despise  that  shrimp,  that  withered  imp, 

Wi’  a’  his  noise  and  cap’rin’, 

And  tak  a  share  wi’  those  that  bear 
The  budget  and  the  apron. 

And  by  that  stoup,  my  faith  and  houp, 

And  by  that  dear  Kilbagie, 

If  e’er  you  want,  or  meet  wi’  \>cant, 

May  I  ne’er  weet  my  craigie. 

And  by  that  stoup,  etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

The  caird  prevailed  —  the  unblushing  fair 
In  his  embraces  sunk, 

Partly  wi’  love  o’ercome  sae  sair, 

And  partly  she  was  drunk. 

Sir  Yiolino,  with  an  air 

That  shewed  a  man  of  spunk, 

Wished  unison  between  the  pair, 

And  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

But  hurchin  Cupid  shot  a  shaft 

That  played  a  dame  a  shavie, 

The  fiddler  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 

Ahint  the  chicken  cavie. 

Her  lord,  a  wight  o’  Homer’s  craft, 

Though  limping  wi’  the  spavie, 

He  hirpled  up,  and  lap  like  daft, 

And  shored  them  Dainty  Davie 

O’  boot  that  night.  ' 
© 


He  was  a  care-defying  blade 
As  ever  Bacchus  listed, 

Though  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid. 
His  heart  she  ever  missed  it. 

He  had  nae  wish  but  —  to  be  glad, 
Nor  want  but  —  when  he  thirsted  ; 
He  hated  nought  but  —  to  be  sad, 
And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 
His  sang  that  night. 


AIR. 

Tune  — For  a’  that ,  and  a’  that. 

I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard 

Wi’  gentle  folks,  and  a’  that ; 

But  Ilomer-like,  the  glowrin’  byke, 

Frae  town  to  town  I  draw  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

And  twice  as  muckle ’s  a’  that, 

I ’ve  lost  but  ane,  I ’ve  twa  bellin’, 

I ’ve  wife  eneugh.  for  a’  that. 

© 


165 


166 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

]  never  drank  the  Muses’  stank, 

Castalia’s  burn,  and  a’  that ; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams, 
My  Helicon  I  ca’  that, 

For  a’  that,  etc. 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a’  the  fair, 

Their  humble  slave,  and  a'  that ; 

But  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  still 
A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a’  that,  etc. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 

YVT  mutual  love,  and  a’  that ; 

But  for  how  lang  the  flie  may  stang, 

Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  a’  that,  etc. 

Their  tricks  and  craft  have  put  me  daft, 
They ’ve  ta’en  me  in.  and  af  that ; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here ’s  the  sex , 
I  like  the  jads  for  a’  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

And  twice  as  muckle ’s  a’  that ; 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid, 
They  Te  welcome  tilTt  for  a’  that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So  sang  the  bard  —  and  Nansie’s  wa’s 

Shook  with  a  thunder  of  applause, 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS .  107 

Re-echoed  from  each  mouth : 

They  toomed  their  pokes,  and  pawned  their  duds, 
They  scarcely  left  to  co’er  their  fuds, 

To  quench  their  lowin’  drouth. 

Then  owre  again,  the  jovial  tlirang 
The  poet  did  request, 

To  loose  his  pack  and  wale  a  sang, 

A  ballad  o’  the  best ; 

He  rising,  rejoicing, 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 

Looks  round  him,  and  found  them 
Impatient  for  the  chorus. 


AIR. 

Tone  —  Jolly  Mortals,  Jill  your  Glasses. 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring  ! 

Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 

And  in  raptures  let  us  sing. 

CHORUS. 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  1 
Liberty ’s  a  glorious  feast ! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title  ?  what  Is  treasure  ? 

What  Ls  reputation’s  care  ? 

If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 

’T  is  no  matter  how  or  where  ! 

A  fig,  etc. 


168 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 

Round  we  wander  all  the  day  ; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable, 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 

A  fig,  etc. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Through  the  country  lighter  rove  ? 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love  ? 

A  fig,  etc. 

Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes  ; 

Let  them  cant  about  decorum 
Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

A  fig,  etc. 

Here ’s  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets  ! 

Here’s  to  all  the  wandering  train  ! 

Here ’s  our  ragged  brats  and  eallets  ! 

One  and  all  cry  out  —  Amen  ! 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected ! 

Liberty ’s  a  glorious  feast ! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 


EPISTLE  TO  JAMES  SMITH.  1 G3 


TO  JAMES  SMITH. 

•*  Friendship  !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul  ! 

Sweet’ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society  ! 

I  owe  thee  much  !  ”  —  Blair. 

Pi  FAR  Smith,  the  slee’est,  paukie  thief 
That  e’er  attempted  stealth  or  ricf, 
Ye  surely  liae  some  warlock-breef 
Ovvre  human  hearts ; 

For  ne’er  a  bosom  yet  was  prief 
Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  and  moon, 

And  every  star  that  blinks  aboon, 

Ye ’ve  cost  me  twenty  pair  o’  shoon 
J ust  gaun  to  see  you ; 

And  every  itlier  pair  that ’s  done, 

Mair  ta’en  I ’m  wi’  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin.  Nature, 

To  male  amends  for  scrimpet  statiu’e, 

She  ’s  turned  vou  aff,  a  human  creature 
On  her  first  plan  ; 

And  in  her  freaks,  on  every  feature 
She ’s  wrote,  the  Man. 

Just  now  I ’ve  ta’en  the  fit  o’  rhyme, 

My  barmie  noddle ’s  working  prime, 

My  fancy  yerldt  up  sublime 

AVi’  hasty  summon  : 
liae  ye  a  leisure  moment’s  time, 

To  hear  what ’s  coinin’  V 


170  EPISTLE  TO  JAMES  SMITH. 

Some  rhyme  a  neighbour’s  name  to  lash  : 

Some  rhyme  (vain  thought !)  for  needfu’  cash  ; 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  country  clash, 

And  raise  a  din  ; 

For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash  — 

I  rhyme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat, 

And  d — d  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But  in  requit, 

Has  blest  me  wi’  a  random  shot 
O’  country  wit. 

This  while  my  notion ’s  ta’en  a  sklent, 

To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent ; 

But  still  the  mair  I ’m  that  way  bent, 
Something  cries  “  Iloolie  ! 

I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent ! 

Ye  ’ll  sliaw  your  folly. 

“  There ’s  ither  poets  much  your  betters, 

Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o’  letters, 

Ilae  thought  they  had  insured  their  debtors 
A’  future  ages  ; 

Now  moths  deform,  in  shapeless  tatters. 

Their  unknown  pages.” 

Then  farewell  hopes  o’  laurel-boughs. 

To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 

Henceforth  I  ’ll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 
Are  whistling  thrang, 


EPISTLE  TO  JAMES  SMITH.  17 1 

% 

And  teach  the  lanely  heights  and  liowes 
My  rustic  sang. 

I  ’ll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed, 

Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread  ; 

Then,  all  unknown, 

1 11  lay  me  with  the  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  o-one  ! 

O  O 

But  why  o’  death  beo-in  a  tale  ? 

Just  now  we  ’re  living  sound  and  hale  : 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  Care  o’er  side  ! 

And  large  before  Enjoyment’s  gale, 

Let ’s  tak  the  tide. 

This  life,  sae  far ’s  I  understand, 

Is  a’  enchanted  fairy-land, 

Where  Pleasure  is  the  majdc  wand, 

That,  wielded  right, 

Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand, 

Dance  by  fu’  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield  ; 

For,  ance  that  five-and-forty ’s  speel’d, 

See,  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi’  wrinkled  face, 

Comes  hostin’,  hirplin’  owre  the  field, 

Wi’  creepin’  pace. 

When  ance  life’s  day  draws  near  the  gloamin’, 
Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin’ ; 


172  EPISTLE  TO  JAMES  SMITH. 

And.  fareweel  cheerfu’  tankards  foamin’, 

And  social  noise  ; 

And  fareweel  dear,  deluding  woman, 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 

Oh,  Life  !  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 

Young  Fancy’s  rays  the  hills  adorning  ! 

Cold-pausing  Caution’s  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 

Like  school-boys,  at  the  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 

We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 

Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Among  the  leaves  : 

And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flowery  spot, 

For  which  they  never  toiled  or  swat ; 

They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat, 

13ut  care  or  pain  ; 

And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 
With  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim  some  fortune  chase  ; 

Keen  hope  does  every  sinew  brace  ; 

Through  fair,  through  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 
And  seize  the  prey  : 

Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place, 

They  close  the  day. 


EPISTLE  TO  JAMES  SMITH.  173 

And  others,  like  your  humble  servan’, 

Poor  wights  !  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin’. 

To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin’, 

Thev  zigzag  on  ; 

Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  and  starvin’, 

They  aften  groan. 

Alas  !  what  bitter  toil  and  straining  — 

But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining  ! 

Is  Fortune’s  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E’en  let  her  gang  ! 

Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let ’s  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door, 

And  kneel,  “  Ye  Powers,”  and  warm  implore, 

“  Though  I  should  wander  Terra  o’er, 

In  all  her  climes, 

Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more, 

Aye  rowth  o’  rhymes. 

“  Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  country  lairds, 

Till  icicles  lung  frae  their  beards ; 

Gie  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards. 

And  maids  of  honour : 

.  .  ♦ 

And  yill  and  whisky  gie  to  cairds, 

Until  they  sconner. 

“  A  title,  Dempster  merits  it ; 

A  garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt ; 

Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledgered  cit, 

In  cent,  per  cent.  ; 


174  EPISTLE  TO  JAMES  SMITH. 

But  give  me  real,  sterling  wit, 

And  I ’m  content. 

“  While  ye  are  pleased  to  keep  me  hale, 

I  ’ll  sit  down  o’er  my  scanty  meal, 

Be ’t  water-brose,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi’  cheerfu’  face, 

As  lane;  ’s  the  Muses  dinna  fail 
To  say  the  grace.” 

An  anxious  e’e  I  never  throws 
Belli  nt  my  lug  or  by  my  nose  ; 

I  jouk  beneath  Misfortune’s  blows 
As  weel ’s  I  may  ; 

Sworn  foe  to  Sorrow,  Care,  and  Prose, 

I  rhyme  away. 

Oh  ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compared  wi’  you  —  oh  fool  !  fool !  fool ! 

How  much  unlike ; 

Your  hearts  are  just  a  standing-pool, 
Your  lives  a  dike  ! 

Nae  hairbrained,  sentimental  traces, 

In  vour  unlettered  nameless  faces  ! 

In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Yre  never  stray, 

But  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 
Yre  hum  away. 

lre  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye  ’re  wise  * 
Nae  ferly  though  ye  do  despise 


THE  VISION.  175 

Hie  kairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boys, 

The  rattling  squad  : 

I  see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes  — 

Ye  ken  the  road. 

Whilst  I  —  but  I  shall  hand  me  there  — 

Wi’  you  I  ’ll  scarce  gang  ony  where : 

Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair, 

But  quat  my  sang, 

Content  with  you  to  mak  a  pair, 

Whare’er  I  gang. 

— • — 

THE  VISION. 

DU  AN  FIRST. 

rPIIE  sun  had  closed  the  winter-day, 

The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 

And  hungered  maukin  ta’en  her  way 
To  kail-yards  green, 

While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 
Whare  she  has  been. 

The  thrasher’s  weary  flinsdn’-tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me ; 

And  when  the  day  had  closed  his  e’e, 

Far  i’  the  west, 

Ben  i’  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lancly,  by  the  ingle-cheek, 

I  sat  and  eyed  the  spewing  reek, 


THE  VISION. 


176 

That  filled  wi’  hoast-provoking  smeek 
The  auld  clay  biggin’ ; 

And  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 
About  the  riggin’. 

All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 

I  backward  mused  on  wasted  time. 

How  I  had  spent  my  youthfu’  prime 
And  done  nae  thing, 

But  stringin’  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Ilad  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 

I  might,  by  this,  hae  led  a  market, 

Or  strutted  in  a  bank,  and  dark  it 
My  cash-account : 

While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit, 

Is  a’  tlf  amount. 

I  started,  muttering,  blockhead  !  coof ! 

And  heaved  on  high  my  waukit  loof. 

To  swear  by  a’  yon  starry  roof, 

Or  some  rash  aith, 

That  I  henceforth  would  be  rhyme-proof 
Till  my  last  breath. 

When,  click  !  the  string  the  snick  did  draw ; 

And,  jee  !  the  door  gaed  to  the  wa’ ; 

And  by  my  ingle-lowe  I  saw, 

Now  bleezin’  bright, 

A  tight,  outlandish  hizzie,  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight. 

O 


/ 


THE  vision. 


177 


Ye  needna  doubt  I  lield  my  whisht ; 

The  infant  aitli,  half-formed,  was  crusht ; 

I  glowred  as  eerie ’s  I ’d  been  dusht 
In  some  wild  glen  ; 

When  sweet,  like  modest  Worth,  she  blusht, 
And  stepped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 

AYere  twisted  gracefu’  round  her  brows  , 

I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token, 

And  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Would  soon  been  broken. 

A  “  hairbrained,  sentimental  trace  '* 

Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face ; 

A  wild!  y- witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her  ; 

Her  eye,  even  turned  on  empty  space, 
Beamed  keen  with  honour. 

Down  flowed  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen, 

Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen  ; 

And  such  a  leg  !  rny  bonny  Jean  1 
Could  only  peer  it ; 

Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight  and  clean, 

Nane  else  cam  near  it. 

i  In  the  first  edition,  the  line  stood  thus  — 

“And  such  a  leg!  my  Bess,  I  ween.” 

Indignation  at  the  conduct  of  Jean  induced  him  to  take  the  com¬ 
pliment  from  her,  and  bestow  it  on  another  person  for  whom  at 
the  time  he  entertained  an  admiration.  Tn  the  first  Edinburgh 
edition,  the  indignant  feeling  haviug  subsided,  the  line  was  re¬ 
stored  as  above. 


VOL.  I. 


12 


8 


THE  VISION. 


Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  line, 

My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew  ; 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling,  threw 
A  lustre  grand  ; 

And  seemed  to  my  astonished  view 
A  well-known  land. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 

There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost  : 

Here,  tumbling  billows  marked  the  coast 
With  surging  foam  ; 

There,  distant  shone  Art’s  lofty  boast  — 

The  lordly  dome. 

Here,  Doon  poured  down  his  far-fetched  floods; 

There,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds  : 

Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  through  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore, 

And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds 
With  seeming  roar. 


Low  in  a  sandy  valley  spread, 

An  ancient  borough  reared  her  head  ; 
Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  boasts  a  race 
To  every  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polished  grace. 

By  stately  tower  or  palace  fair, 

Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 

Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 
I  could  discern  : 


THE  VISION. 


179 


Some  seemed  to  muse,  some  seemed  to  dare, 
With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel, 

To  see  a  race  heroic  wheel, 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dyed  steel 
In  sturdy  blows  ; 

AY  hile  back-recoiling  seemed  to  reel 
Their  suthron  foes. 

Ilis  Country’s  Saviour,  mark  him  well ! 

Bold  Bichard  ton’s  heroic  swell  ; 

The  chief  on  Sark  who  glorious  fell 
In  high  command  ; 

And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 
Ilis  native  land. 

There,  where  a  sceptred  Pictish  shade 
Stalked  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 

I  marked  a  martial  race,  portrayed 
In  colours  strong  ; 

Bold,  soldier-featured,  undismayed, 

They  strode  along. 

Through  many  a  wild  romantic  grove. 

Near  many  a  hermit-fancied  cove 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love), 

In  musing  mood, 

An  aged  judge,  I  saw  him  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe, 

The  learned  sire  and  son  I  saw, 


180 


THE  VISION. 

To  Nature’s  God  and  Nature’s  law 
They  gave  their  lore, 

This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 
That,  to  adore. 

Brydone’s  brave  ward  I  well  could  spy, 

Beneath  old  Scotia’s  smiling  eye  ; 

Who  called  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 
To  hand  him  on, 

Where  many  a  patriot-name  on  high, 
And  hero  shone. 

DU  AX  SECOXD. 

With  musing-deep,  astonished  stare, 

I  viewed  the  heavenly-seeming  fair  ; 

A  whispering  throb  did  witness  bear 
Of  kindred  sweet, 

When  with  an  elder  sister’s  air 
She  did  me  greet. 

O 

“  All  hail,  my  own  inspired  bard  ! 

In  me  thy  native  Muse  regard  ! 

Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 
Thus  poorly  low  ! 

I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 
As  we  bestow. 

“  Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land 

Has  many  a  light,  aerial  band, 

Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 
Harmoniously, 


TITE  VISION.  181 

As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

Their  labours  ply. 

“  They  Scotia’s  race  among  them  share  ; 

Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare  ; 

Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 
Corruption’s  heart  : 

Some  teach  the  bard,  a  darling  care, 

The  tuneful  art. 

’Mono;  swelling  floods  of  reeking;  gore, 

They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits,  pour ; 

Or,  ’mid  the  venal  senate’s  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand, 

To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore, 

And  grace  the  hand. 

“  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 

Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 

They  bind  the  wild,  poetic  rage 
In  energy, 

Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 
Full  on  the  eye. 

“  Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young:: 

1  O' 

Hence  Dempster’s  zeal-inspired  1  tongue ; 

Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung- 
His  ‘-Minstrel  lays  ;  ’ 

Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung, 

The  sceptic’s  bays. 

*  In  first  edition  — 

“Hence  Dempster's  truth-prevailing  tongue.” 


182 


THE  VISION. 

“  To  lower  orders  are  assigned 

The  humbler  ranks  of  humankind, 

The  rustic  bard,  the  labouring-hind, 

The  artisan  ; 

All  choose,  as  various  they’re  inclined, 

The  various  man. 

“  When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 

The  threatening  storm  some  strongly  rein  : 

Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain, 

With  tillage  skill ; 

And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 
Blithe  o’er  the  hill. 

“  Some  hint  the  lover’s  harmless  wile ; 

Some  grace  the  maiden’s  artless  smile  ; 

Some  soothe  the  labourer’s  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gains, 

And  make  his  cottawe-scenes  beguile 
His  cares  and  pains. 

“  Some,  bounded  to  a  district-space, 

Explore  at  large  man’s  infant  race, 

To  mark  the  embryotie  trace 
Of  rustic  bard ; 

And  careful  note  each  opening  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard. 

“  Of  these  am  I  —  Coila  my  name ; 

And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim, 

Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame, 
Held  ruling  power  : 


THE  VISION.  183 

I  marked  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

“  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze, 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 

Thy  rudely-caroled,  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 

Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 
Of  other  times. 

•l  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 

Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar  ; 

Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sk\r, 

I  saw  grim  Nature’s  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

“  Or  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
W  arm  cherished  every  floweret’s  birth, 

And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 
In  every  grove, 

I  saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

“  When  ripened  fields,  and  azure  skies, 

Called  forth  the  reapers  rustling  noise, 

I  saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 

To  vent  thy  bosom’s  swelling  rise 
In  pensive  walk. 

“  When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong, 
Keen  shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 


184 


THE  VISION. 


Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Tli’  adored  Name, 

I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

•/ 

“  I  saw  thy  pulse’s  maddening  play, 

Wild  send  thee  Pleasure’s  devious  way, 
Misled  by  Fancy’s  meteor-ray,  . 

By  passion  driven  ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

I  taught  thy  manners  painting  strains, 
The  loves,  the  wants  of  simple  swains, 

Till  now,  o’er  all  my  wide  domains 
Thy  fame  extends  ; 

And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila’s  plains, 
Become  thy  friends. 

“  Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  shew, 

To  paint  with  Thomson’s  landscape  glow  ; 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe, 

With  Shenstone’s  art ; 

Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
Warm  on  the  heart. 

“  Yet,  all  beneath  the  unrivalled  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows  ; 

Though  large  the  forest’s  monarch  throws 

O  O 

His  army  shade, 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows 
Adown  the  glade. 


A  WINTER  NIG nT. 


185 


“  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine  ; 

And,  trust  me,  not  Potosi’s  mine, 

Nor  king’s  regard, 

Can  give  a  bliss  o’ermatching  thine, 

A  rustic  bard. 

“  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one  — 

Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan  ; 

Preserve  the  dignity  of  man, 

With  soul  erect ; 

And  trust,  the  universal  plan 
Will  all  protect. 

“And  wear  thou  this,”  she  solemn  said, 

And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head  : 

The  polished  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play ; 

And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away. 

— ♦ — 

A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

“  Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  yon  are. 

That  bide  the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm  ! 

How  shall  your  houseless  heads  and  unfed  sides. 

Your  looped  and  windowed  raggedness,  defend  you 
Prom  seasons  such  as  these  ?  ”  —  Shakspeare. 

X’XTITEN  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 

"  ’  Sharp  shivers  through  the  leafless  bower ; 

When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-lived  glower 
Far  south  the  lift. 


386  A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

Di  in-darkening  through  the  flaky  shower, 

Or  whirling  drift  : 

Ae  niglit  tlie  storm  the  steeples  rocked, 

Poor  Labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked. 

While  burns,  wi’  snawy  wreaths  up-choked, 

Wild-eddying  swirl, 

Or,  through  the  mining  outlet  bocked, 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

© 

Listening  the  doors  and  winnocks  rattle, 
thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 

Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 
O’  winter  war, 

And  through  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle, 
Beneath  a  scaur. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 

That,  in  the  merry  months  o’  spring, 

Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o’  thee  V 

Whare  wilt  thou  cower  thy  chittering  wing, 
And  close  thy  e’e  ? 

Even  you,  on  murdering  errands  toiled, 

Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exiled, 

The  blood-stained  roost,  and  sheep-cot  spoiled, 
My  heart  forgets, 

While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 
Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign. 

Dark  muffled,  viewed  the  dreary  plain  ; 


A  WINTER  NIGHT.  187 

Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 

When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain 
Slow,  solemn,  stole  :  — 

“  Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust  1 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-bitino-  frost  ! 

Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows  ! 

Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shews 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting 
Vengeful  malice  unrepenting, 

Than  heaven-illumined  man  on  brother  man  be 
stows  ! 

“  See  stern  Oppression’s  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  Ambition’s  gory  hand, 

Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 

Wo,  Want,  and  Murder  o’er  a  land  ! 

E’en  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 

Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale, 

IIow  pampered  Luxury,  Flattery  by  her  side. 
The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 

With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear, 
Looks  o’er  proud  Property,  extended  wide  ; 

And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittering  show, 

A  creature  of  another  kind, 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefined, 

Placed  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile  below. 

“  Where,  where  is  Love’s  fond,  tender  throe, 
With  lordly  Honour’s  lofty  brow, 

The  powers  you  proudly  own  V 


A  WINTER  NIG nT. 


188 

Is  there,  beneath  Love’s  noble  name, 

Can  harbour  dark  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ! 

Mark  maiden  innocence  a  prey 
To  love-pretending  snares  :  — 

This  boasted  Honour  turns  away, 

Shunning  soft  Pity’s  rising  sway, 

Regardless  of  the  tears  and  unavailing  prayers  1 
Perhaps  this  hour,  in  misery’s  squalid  nest, 

She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast, 
And  with  a  mother’s  fears  shrinks  at  the  rocking 
blast ! 

“  Oh  ye  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 

Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think  for  a  moment  on  his  wretched  fate 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 

Ill  satisfied  keen  Nature’s  clamorous  call, 

Stretched  on  his  straw,  he  lays  himself  to  sleep. 
While  through  the  ragged  roof  and  clunky  wall, 
Chill  o’er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  Leap  ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon’s  grim  confine, 

Where  Guilt  and  poor  Misfortune  pine  ! 
Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  ! 

But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  Fortune’s  undeserved  blow  ? 
Aflliction’s  sons  are  brothers  in  distress  ; 

A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss  !  ” 

I  heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 
Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw, 


YOUNG  PEGGY.  ISO 

And  hailed  the  morning  with  a  cheer, 

A  cottage-rousing  craw. 

<P>  O 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  mind  — 
Through  all  His  works  abroad, 

Hie  heart  benevolent  and  kind 
The  most  resembles  God. 

— ♦ — 

YOUNG  PEGGY. 

Tune  —  Last  time  T  came  o'er  the  Muir. 

YOUNG  Pegg  y  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 
Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 

<D  7 

The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass, 

With  early  gems  adorning  : 

Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 
That  gild  the  passing  shower, 

And  glitter  o’er  the  crystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  freshening  flower. 

Her  lips,  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 

A  richer  dye  has  graced  them  ; 

Tliev  charm  tli’  admiring  gazer’s  si<dit. 

And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them  : 

Her  smile  is  as  the  evening  mild, 

When  feathered  tribes  are  courting, 

©7 

And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild, 

In  playful  bands  disporting. 

Were  Fortune  lovely  Peggy’s  foe, 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her, 


190 


SCOTCH  -DRINK. 


As  blooming  Spring  unbends  the  brow 
Of  surly,  savage  Winter. 

Detraction’s  eye  no  aim  can  gain, 

Her  winning  powers  to  lessen  ; 

And  fretful  Envy  grins  in  vain 
The  poisoned  tooth  to  fasten. 

Ye  powers  of  Honour,  Love,  and  Truth, 
From  every  ill  defend  her  ; 

Inspire  the  highly-favoured  youth 
The  destinies  intend  her  : 

Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame 
Responsive  in  each  bosom, 

And  bless  the  dear  parental  name 
With  many  a  filial  blossom. 


SCOTCH  DRIXK. 

“  Gie  him  strong  drink,  until  he  wink, 

That ’s  sinking  in  despair ; 

And  liquor  guid,  to  fire  his  bluid, 

That 's  prest  wi’  grief  and  care; 

There  let  him  boose,  and  deep  carouse. 

Wi’  hampers  flowing  o’er, 

Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts. 

And  miuds  his  griefs  no  more.” 

Solomon’s  Proverrs,  xxxi.  6,  7. 

T  ET  other  poets  raise  a  fracas 
^  ’Bout  vines,  and  wines,  and  drucken  Bacchus. 
And  crabbit  names  and  stories  wrack  us, 

And  grate  our  lug  : 

[  sing  the  juice  Scotch  beare  can  mak  us, 

In  glass  or  jug. 


SCOTCH  DC  INK. 


191 


0  thou,  my  Muse  !  guid  aukl  Scotch  drink, 
Whether  through  wimplin’  worms  thou  jink. 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o’er  the  brink, 

In  glorious  faem, 

Inspire  mo,  till  I  lisp  and  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name  ! 

Let  husky  wheat  the  haughs  adorn, 

And  aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 

And  peas  and  beans,  at  e’en  or  morn, 

Perfume  the  plain, 

Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o’  grain  ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood, 

In  souple  scones,  the  wale  o’  food  ! 

Or  tumblin’  in  the  boilin’  flood 
Wi’  kail  and  beef ; 

But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart’s  blood, 
There  thou  shines  chief. 

Food  fills  the  warne,  and  keeps  us  livin’ ; 
Though  life ’s  a  gift  no  worth  receivin’, 

When  heavy  dragged  wi’  pine  and  grievin’  ; 
But,  oiled  by  thee, 

The  wheels  o’  life  gae  down-hill  scrievin’, 

Wi’  rattlin’  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o’  doited  Lear  ; 

Thou  cheers  the  heart  o’  drooping  Care; 

Thou  strings  the  nerves  o’  Labour  sair, 

At ’s  weary  toil ; 


SCOTCH  DRINK. 


192 

Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 
Wi’  gloomy  smile. 

Aft  clad  in  massy  siller  weed, 

Wi’  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head  ; 

Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o’  need, 

The  poor  man’s  wine, 

His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread, 

Thou  kitchens  fine. 

Thou  art  the  life  o’  public  haunts  : 

But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants  ? 

Even  godly  meetings  o’  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspired, 

When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Are  doubly  fired. 

That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 

O  sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in  1 

Or  reekin’  on  a  New-year  morning 
In  cog  or  bicker, 

And  just  a  wee  drap  sp’ritual  burn  in. 
And  gusty  sucker  ! 

When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 

And  ploughmen  gather  wi’  their  graith, 

Oh  rare !  to  see  thee  fizz  and  freath 
I’  the  lugget  caup  ! 

Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  death 
At  every  chap. 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel ; 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chi  el, 


SCOTCH  BRINK.  19? 

Brings  hard  owerliip,  wi’  sturdy  wheel, 

The  strong  forehammer, 

'Fill  block  and  studdie  ring  and  reel 
Wi’  dinsome  clamour. 

When  skirlin’  weanies  see  the  light, 

Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright, 

IIow  fumblin’  cuifs  their  dearies  slight ; 

Wae  worth  the  name  ! 

Nap.  howdie  gets  a  social  night, 

Or  plack  frae  them. 

When  neebors  anger  at  a  plea, 

And  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be, 
llow  easy  can  the  barley-bree 

Cement  the  quarrel ! 

It  ;s  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer’s  fee 
To  taste  the  barrel. 

Alake  !  that  e’er  my  Muse  has  reason 
To  wyte  her  countrymen  wi’  treason  ! 

But  monie  daily  weet  their  weason 
Wi’  liquors  nice, 

And  hardly  in  a  winter’s  season 
E’er  spier  her  price. 

Wae  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash  1 
Fell  source  o’  monie  a  pain  and  brash  ! 

Twins  monie  «  poor,  doylt,  drucken  hash, 

O’  half  his  days  ; 

And  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland’s  cash 
To  her  warst  faes. 

VOL.  I.  13 


194  SCOTCH  DRINK. 

Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well, 

Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I  tell : 

Poor  plackless  devils  like  mysel’, 

It  sets  you  ill, 

Wi’  bitter,  dearthfu’  wines  to  mell, 

Or  foreign  gill. 

May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench, 

And  gouts  torment  him  inch  by  inch, 

Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi’  a  glunch 
O’  sour  disdain, 

Out  owre  a  glass  o’  whisky-punch 
Wi’  honest  men  ! 

Oh  whisky !  soul  o’  plays  and  pranks  ! 

Accept  a  bardie’s  gratefu’  thanks  ! 

When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 
Are  my  poor  verses  ! 

Thou  comes  —  they  rattle  i’  their  ranks 
At  ither’s - ! 

Thee,  Ferintosh  !  oh  sadly  lost  ! 

Scotland  lament  frae  coast  to  coast ! 

Now  colic  grips,  and  barkin’  hoast, 

May  kill  us  a’ ; 

For  loyal  Forbes’  chartered  boast 
Is  ta’en  awa  ! 

Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o’  th’  Excise, 

Wha  mak  the  whisky-stells  their  prize  ! 

Haud  up  thy  han’,  Deil  !  ance,  twice,  thrice 
There,  seize  the  blinkers  ! 


EARNEST  CRT  AND  PRATER.  195 

And  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 
For  poor  d — d  drinkers. 

Fortune  !  if  thou  ’ll  but  gie  me  still 

Hale  breeks,  a  scone,  and  whisky-gill, 

And  rowtho’  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a’  the  rest, 

And  deal ’t  about  as  thy  blind  skill 
Directs  thee  best. 

- 4 — 

THE  AUTHOR’S  EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER 

ro  THE  SCOTCH  REPRESENTATIVES  IN  THE  HOUSE  OP 

COMMONS. 

“  Dearest  of  distillation  !  last  and  best ! 

How  art  thou  lost  1  ”  —  Parody  on  MrLTON. 

"VTE  Irish  lords,  ye  knights  and  squires, 

Wha  represent  our  brughs  and  shires. 

And  doucely  manage  our  affairs 
In  parliament, 

To  you  a  simple  Bardie’s  prayers 
Are  humbly  sent. 

Alas  !  my  roopit  Muse  is  hearse  ! 

Your  honours’  heart  wi’  grief  ’t  wad  pierce, 

To  see  her  sittin’  on  her - 

Low  i’  the  dust, 

And  screechin’  out  prosaic  verse, 

And  like  to  burst  ! 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 

Scotland  and  me ’s  in  great  affliction. 


196 


EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER. 


E’er  sin’  they  laid  that  curst  restriction 
On  aqua  vitae  ; 

And  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction, 
And  move  their  pity. 

Stand  forth,  and  tell  yon  Premier  youth, 

The  honest,  open,  naked  truth  : 

Tell  him  o’  mine  and  Scotland’s  drouth, 
His  servants  humble  : 

The  muckle  devil  blaw  ye  south, 

If  ye  dissemble. 

Does  ony  great  man  glunch  and  gloom  ? 

Speak  out,  and  never  fash  your  thoom  ! 

Let  posts  and  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi’  them  wha  grant  ’em  * 

If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Far  better  want  ’em. 

In  gath’rin’  votes  you  were  na  slack  ; 

Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack  ; 

Ne’er  claw  your  lug,  and  fidge  your  back, 
And  hum  and  haw  ; 

But  raise  your  arm,  and  tell  your  crack, 
Before  them  a’. 

Paint  Scotland  greeting  owre  her  thrissle, 

Iler  mutchkin  stoup  as  toom ’s  a  whistle  ; 

And  d — d  exciseman  in  a  bussle, 

Seizin’  a  stell, 

Triumphant  crushin ’t  like  a  mussel 
Or  lampit  shell. 


EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER. 


197 


Then  on  the  tither  hand  present  her, 

A  blackguard  smuggler,  right  behint  her, 
And  cheek-for-chow,  a  chuffie  vintner 
Colleaguing  join, 

Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 
Of  a’  kind  coin. 

Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o’  Scot, 

But  feels  his  heart’s  bluid  rising  hot, 

To  see  his  poor  auld  mither’s  pot 
Thus  dung  in  staves, 

And  plundered  o’  her  hindmost  groat 
By  gallows  knaves  ? 

Alas  !  I ’m  but  a  nameless  wight, 

Trod  i’  the  mire  out  o’  si«:ht ! 

But  could  I  like  Montgomeries  fi^ht. 

Or  gab  like  Boswell, 

There ’s  some  sark -necks  I  wad  draw  tight. 
And  tie  some  hose  well. 

God  bless  your  honours,  can  ye  see ’t, 

The  kind,  auld,  cantie  carlin  greet, 

And  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

And  gar  them  hear  it, 

And  tell  them  with  a  patriot  heat, 

Ye  winna  bear  it  ? 

Some  o’  you  nicely  ken  the  laws, 

To  round  the  period  and  pause, 

And  wi’  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 

To  mak  harangues  ;  — 


7 98  EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER . 

Then  echo  through  Saint  Stephen’s  wa’s 
Auld  Scotland’s  wrancrs  J 

o 

Dempster,  a  true  blue  Scot  I  ’se  warran’ ; 

Thee,  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran  ; 

And  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  baron, 

The  Laird  o’  Graham  ; 

And  ane,  a  chap  that ’s  d — d  auldfarran, 
Dundas  his  name. 

Erskine,  a  spunkie  Norland  billie  ; 

True  Campbells,  Frederick  and  Hay  ; 

And  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie ; 

And  mony  ithers, 

Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Thlly 
Might  own  for  brithers. 

See,  sodger  Hugh,  my  watchman  stented, 

If  bardies  e’er  are  represented  ; 

I  ken  if  that  your  sword  were  wanted, 

Ye ’d  lend  a  hand, 

But  when  there ’s  ought  to  say  anent,  it 
Ye  ’re  at  a  stand.1 

Arouse,  my  boys  !  exert  your  mettle, 

To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle ; 

Or  faith,  I  ’ll  wad  my  new  plough-pettle, 

Ye  ’ll  see ’t  or  lang, 

She  ’ll  teach  you  wi’  a  reekin’  whittle, 

Anither  sang. 

1  This  stanza,  alluding  to  the  imperfect  elocution  of  the  gallant 
Montgomery  of  Coilsfield,  was  omitted  from  the  poem  by  the 
author. 


EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER.  1  Of) 

This  while  she ’s  been  in  crankous  mood  ; 

Her  lost  militia  fired  her  bluid  ; 

(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Played  her  that  pliskie  ! ) 

And  now  she ’s  like  to  rin  red-wud 
About  her  whisky. 

And  L —  !  if  ance  they  pit  her  till ’t, 

Her  tartan  petticoat  she  ’ll  kilt, 

And  durk  and  pistol  at  her  belt, 

She  ’ll  tak  the  streets, 

And  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt 

I’  th’  first  she  meets  ! 

For  G —  sake,  sirs  !  then  speak  her  fair, 

And  straik  her  cannie  wi’  the  hair, 

And  to  the  muckle  house  repair, 

Wi’  instant  speed, 

And  strive,  wi’  a’  your  wit  and  lear, 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongued  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 

May  taunt  you  wi*  his  jeers  and  mocks  ; 

But  gie  him ’t  het,  my  hearty  cocks  ! 

E’en  cow  the  cadie  ! 

And  send  him  to  his  dicino--box 

O 

And  sportin’  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o’  auld  Boconnocks, 

1  ’ll  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bannocks, 

And  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nanse  Tinnock’s 
Nine  times  a  week, 

It  he  some^scheme,  like  tea  and  winnocks, 

Wad  kindlv  seek. 


200  EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER. 

Could  lie  some  commutation  broach, 

I  ’ll  pledge  my  aitli  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 
lie  need  na  fear  their  foul  reproach, 

Nor  erudition, 

Yon  mixtie-maxtie  queer  hotch-potch. 

The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle  tongue  ; 

She’s  just  a  devil  wi’  a  rung  ; 

And  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 
To  tak  their  part, 

Though  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 
She  ’ll  no  desert. 

And  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and-Forty, 

May  still  your  mither’s  heart  support  ye : 
Then,  though  a  minister  grow  dorty, 

And  kick  your  place, 

Ye  ’ll  snap  your  fingers  poor  and  hearty, 
Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  honours  a’  your  days, 

Wi’  sowps  o’  kail  and  brats  o’  claise, 

In  spite  o’  a’  the  thievish  kaes 

That  haunt  St.  Jamie’s  ! 
Your  humble  Poet  sings  and  prays, 

While  Bab  his  name  is. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  half-starved  slaves  in  warmer  skies 
See  future  wines,  rich  clust’ring,  rise  ; 


EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER. 


201 


Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne’er  envies, 

But  blithe  and  frisky, 

She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys 
Tak  aff  their  whisky. 

What  though  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 

While  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty  charms ! 

When  wretches  range,  in  famished  swarms, 

The  scented  groves, 

Or  hounded  forth,  dishonour  arms 
In  hungry  droves. 

Their  gun ’s  a  burden  on  their  shouther  ; 

They  downa  bide  the  stink  o’  powther  ; 

Their  bauldest  thought ’s  a  hank’ring  swither 
To  stan’  or  rin, 

Till  skelp  —  a  shot  —  they  ’re  aff,  a’thr’owther, 
To  save  their  skin. 

But  brinor  a  Scotchman  frae  his  hill, 

O  7 

Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill, 

Say  such  is  royal  George’s  will, 

And  there ’s  the  foe,  — 

He  has  nae  thought,  but  how  to  kill 
Twa  at  a  blow. 

Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him  ; 

Death  comes  —  wi’  fearless  eye  he  sees  him  ; 

Wi’  bluidy  ban’  a  welcome  gies  him ; 

And  when  he  fa’s, 

His  latest  draught  o’  breathin’  lea’es  him 
In  faint  huzzas ! 


202  FARMER'S  NEW- TEAR  ADDRESS. 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek, 

And  raise  a  philosophic  reek, 

And  physically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  and  season  ; 

But  tell  me  whisky’s  name  in  Greek, 

I  ’ll  tell  the  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  mither ! 

Though  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 

Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o’  heather 
Ye  tine  vour  dam  ; 

Freedom  and  whisky  gang  thegithe'r  !  — 

Tak  aff  your  dram  ! 

— ♦ — 

THE  AULD  FARMER’S  NEW -YEAR  MORNING 
SALUTATION  TO  HIS  AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCUSTOMED  KIPP  OF  CORN,  TO 
HANSEL,  IN  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

A  GUID  New-year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie  ! 

Hae,  there ’s  a  ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie  : 

Though  thou ’s  howe-backit,  now,  and  knaggie, 

I ’ve  seen  the  day 

Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  ony  staggie 
Out-owre  the  lay. 

Though  now  thou ’s  dowie,  stiff,  and  crazy, 

And  thy  auld  hide ’s  as  white ’s  a  daisy, 

I ’ve  seen  thee  dappl’t,  sleek,  and  glaizie, 

A  bonny  gray  : 

lie  should  been  tight  that  daur’t  to  raize  thee 
Ance  in  a  day. 


FARMER'S  NEW- YEAR  ADDRESS. 

Thou  ance  was  i’  the  foremost  rank, 

A  filly  fyuirdly,  steeve,  and  swank, 

And  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank 
As  e’er  tread  yird  ; 

And  could  liae  flown  out-owre  a  stank 
Like  ony  bird. 

It ’s  now  some  nine-and-twenty  year, 

Sin’  thou  was  my  guid-father’s  meare  ; 

He  gied  me  thee,  o’  tocher  clear, 

And  fifty  mark  ; 

Though  it  was  sma’,  ’t  was  weel-won  gear, 
And  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 

Ye  then  was  trottin’  wi’  your  minnie  ; 
Though  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  and  funnie, 

Ye  ne’er  was  donsie  : 

But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  and  cannie, 

And  unco  sonsie. 

That  day  ye  pranced  wi’  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonny  bride  : 

And  sweet  and  gracefu’  she  did  ride, 

Wi’  maiden  air  ! 

Kyi  e-Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

For  sic  a  pair. 

Though  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and  hobble, 
And  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble, 

That  day  ye  was  a  j inker  noble, 

For  heels  and  win’ ! 


203 


204  FARMER'S  NEW- YEAR  ADDRESS. 


And  ran  them  till  they  a’  did  wauble 
F ar,  far  bellin’ ! 

When  thou  and  I  were  young  and  skeigh, 

And  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh, 

How  thou  would  prance,  and  snore,  and  skreigh, 
And  tak  the  road  ! 

Town’s  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh, 

And  ca’t  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't,  and  I  was  mellow, 

We  took  the  road  aye  like  a  swallow : 

At  brooses  thou  had  ne’er  a  fellow 
For  pith  and  speed ; 

But  every  tail  thou  pay’t  them  hollow, 

Whare’er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma’  droop-rumpl’t,  hunter  cattle, 

Might  aiblins  waur’t  thee  for  a  brattle, 

But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try’t  their  mettle, 
And  gar’t  them  whaizle  : 

Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 
O’  sauo-h  or  hazle. 

O 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan’, 

As  e’er  in  tu<r  or  tow  was  drawn  ! 

Aft  thee  and  I,  in  aught  hours’  gaun, 

In  guid  March  weather, 

Hae  turned  sax  rood  beside  our  han’ 

For  days  thegitlier. 

Thou  never  braindg’t,  and  fetch’t,  and  fliskit, 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whisket, 


FARMERS  NEW- YEAR  ADDRESS .  205 

And  spread  abreed  thy  weel-filled  brisket 
Wi’  pith  and  power, 

Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair’t  and  risket, 

And  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  and  snaws  were  deep, 
And  threatened  labour  back  to  keep, 

I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee  bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer  ; 

I  kenivd  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 
For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 

The  stayest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac’t  it ; 

Thou  never  lap,  and  sten’t,  and  breastit, 

Then  stood  to  blaw  ; 

But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit, 

Thou  snoov’t  awa’. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a’, 

Four  gallant  brutes  as  e’er  did  draw  ; 

Forbye  sax  mae  I’ve  sell’t  awa’, 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 

They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  and  twa, 

The  very  warst. 

Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 

And  wi’  the  weary  warl’  fought ; 

And  monie  an  anxious  day  I  thought 

•'  o 

We  wad  be  beat ; 

Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we  ’re  brought, 

Wi’  something  yet. 


20G  TT1E  TWA  DOGS. 

And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan’, 

That  now  perhaps  thou ’s  less  deservin’, 

And  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin’ ; 

For  my  last  fow, 

A  heapit  stimpart,  1  ’ll  reserve  ane 
Laid  by  for  you. 

We  ’ve  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither  ; 

We  ’ll  toyte  about  wi’  ane  anither ; 

Wi’  tentie  care  I  ’ll  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain’d  rig, 

Where  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi’  sma’  fatigue. 

O 

- ♦ — 

THE  TWA  DOGS: 

A  TALE. 

’rp  WAS  in  that  place  o’  Scotland’s  isle 
"*■  That  bears  the  name  o’  Auld  King  Coil, 
Upon  a  bonny  day  in  June, 

When  wearing  through  the  afternoon, 

Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
Forgathered  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I  ’ll  name,  they  ca’d  him  Cassar, 

Was  keepit  for  his  honour’s  pleasure  ; 

His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 

Shewed  he  was  mine  o’  Scotland’s  dogs, 

But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 

Wliare  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

O  D 


THE  TWA  DOGS.  207 

Ilis  locked,  lettered,  braw  brass-collar, 

Shewed  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar  ; 

But  though  he  was  o’  high  degree, 

The  fient  a  pride  —  nae  pride  had  he  ; 

But  wad  liae  spent  an  hour  caressin’, 

E’en  wi’  a  tinkler-gipsy’s  messan. 

At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 

Nae  tawted  tyke,  though  e’er  sae  duddie. 

But  he  wad  stan’t,  as  glad  to  see  him, 

And  stroan’t  on  stanes  and  hillocks  wi’  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman’s  collie, 

A  rhyming,  ranting,  roving  billie, 

Wha  for  his  friend  and  comrade  had  him, 

And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca’d  him, 

After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang, 

Was  made  lang  syne  —  Lord  knows  how  lang  ! 

He  was  a  gash  and  faithful  tyke, 

As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dike. 

His  honest,  sonsie,  baws’nt  face, 

Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 

His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi’  coat  o’  glossy  black  ; 

His  gaucy  tail,  wi’  upward  curl, 

Huno-  o’er  his  hurdies  wi’  a  swirl. 

O 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o’  ither, 

And  unco  pack  and  thick  thegither  ; 

Wi’  social  nose  whyles  snuffed  and  snowkit, 
Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts  they  liowkit, 
Whyles  scoured  awa’  in  lang  excursion, 

And  worried  ither  in  diversion  ; 


/ 


208  THE  TWA  DOGS. 

Until  wi’  daffin’  weary  grown, 

Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down, 

And  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o’  the  creation. 

(LESAR. 

I’ve  aften  wondered,  honest  Luath, 

What  sort  o’  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have 
And  when  the  gentry’s  life  I  saw, 

What  way  poor  bodies  lived  ava. 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 

His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a’  his  stents  ; 

He  rises  when  he  likes  himseP  ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 

He  ca’s  his  eoacli,  he  ca’s  his  horse ; 

He  draws  a  bonny  silken  purse 

As  lang ’s  my  tail,  whare,  through  the  steeks, 

The  yellow  lettered  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e’en  it’s  nought  but  toiling, 

At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling  ; 

And  though  the  gentry  first  are  steehin, 

Yet  e’en  the  ha’  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi’  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sic-like  trashtrie, 
That ’s  little  short  o’  downright  wastrie. 

Our  whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 

Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner 
Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  honour  has  in  a’  the  lan’ ; 

And  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  paineh  in, 

I  own  it ’s  past  my  comprehension. 


THE  TWA  DOGS.  209 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Caesar,  whyles  they  ’re  fash’t  enough ; 

A  cotter  howkin’  in  a  sheugh, 

Wi’  dirty  stanes  biggin’  a  dike, 

Barring  a  quarry,  and  sic-like  : 

Himself*,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 

A  smytrie  o’  wee  duddie  weans, 

And  nought  but  his  han’  darg,  to  keep 
Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  and  rape. 

And  when  they  meet  wi’  sair  disasters, 

Like  loss  o’  health,  or  want  o'  masters, 

Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 

And  they  maun  starve  o’  cauld  and  hunger ; 
But  how  it  comes,  I  never  kenn’d  yet, 

They  ’re  maistly  wonderfu’  contented  : 

And  buirdly  chiels,  and  clever  hizzies, 

Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 

CvESAlt. 

But  then  to  see  how  ye  ’re  negleckit, 

Mow  huffed,  and  cuffed,  and  disrespeckit  ! 

L — ,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  lktle 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  and  sic  cattle  ; 

They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk, 

As  I  wad  by  a  stinkin’  brock. 

I  ’ve  noticed,  on  our  Laird’s  court-day, 

And  monie  a  time  my  heart ’s  been  wae, 

Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o’  cash, 

How  they  maun  thole  a  factor’s  snash  : 

J 

He’ll  stamp  and  threaten,  601*86  and  swear, 

VOL.  I.  If 


210  TI7E  TWA  DOGS. 

He  ’ll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear  ; 
While  they  maun  stan’,  wi*  aspect  humble, 
And  hear  it  a’,  and  fear  and  tremble  ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  liae  riches  ; 

But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They  ’re  no  sae  wretched ’s  ane  wad  think  : 
Though  constantly  on  poortith’s  brink  : 
They  ’re  sae  accustomed  wi’  the  sight, 

The  view  o”t  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  and  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
They  ’re  aye  in  less  or  mair  provided  ; 

And  though  fatigued  wi’  close  employment. 
A  blink  o’  rest ’s  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o’  their  lives, 

Their  grushie  weans  and  faithfu’  wives  ; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a’  their  fireside  ; 

And  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o’  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy. 

They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 

To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs  : 

They  ’ll  talk  o’  patronage  and  priests, 

Wi’  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts, 

Or  tell  what  new  taxation ’s  coinin’, 

And  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon’on. 

As  bleak-faced  Hallowmas  returns, 

They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 


THE  TWA  DOGS.  211 

• 

When  rural  life  o’  every  station 
Unite  in  common  recreation  ; 

Love  blinks,  AVit  slaps,  and  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there ’s  Care  upo’  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  win’s  ; 

The  nappy  reeks  wi’  mantling  ream, 

And  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam  : 

The  luntin’  pipe,  and  sneeshin-mill, 

Are  handed  round  wi’  right  guidwill  ; 

The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin’  crouse, 

The  young  anes  rantin’  through  the  house 
Mv  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them. 

That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi’  them. 

Still  it ’s  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said, 

Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  played. 

There ’s  monie  a  creditable  stock 
O’  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo’k 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch, 

Some  rascal’s  pridefu’  greed  to  quench. 

Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel’  the  faster 
In  favour  wi’  some  gentle  master, 

Wha  aiblins  thrang  a  parliamentin’, 

For  Britain’s  guid  his  saul  indentin’ - 

4 

C-rESAIl. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ; 

For  Britain’s  guid  !  guid  faith,  I  doubt  ir 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him, 

And  saying  Ay  or  No ’s  they  bid  him  : 


212  TIIE  TWA  DOGS. 

At  operas  and  plays  parading, 

Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading  ; 

Or  maybe,  in  a  frolic  daft, 

To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a  waft, 

To  mak  a  tour  and  tak  a  whirl, 

To  learn  bon  ton ,  and  see  the  woiT. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 
lie  rives  his  father’s  auld  entails  ; 

Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  route, 

To  chrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi’  nowte  ; 

Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

AT - hunting  amang  groves  o’  myrtles  : 

Then  bouses  drumly  German  water, 

To  mak  himsel’  look  fair  and  fatter, 

And  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 
Love-o-ifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain’s  guid  !  —  for  her  destruction  ! 
Wi’  dissipation,  feud,  and  faction. 

LUATII. 

Hech,  man  !  dear  sirs  !  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate  ! 

Are  we  sae  foughten  and  harassed 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last  ! 

ft 

Oh  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 

And  please  themsel’s  wi’  country  sports, 

It  wad  for  every  ane  be  better, 

The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  and  the  Cotter  ! 
For  thae  frank,  rantin’,  ramblin’  billies, 


TIIE  TWA  DOGS.  213 

Fient  haet  o’  them ’s  ill-hearted  fellows  ; 

Except  for  breakin’  o’  their  timmer, 

Or  speakin’  lightly  o’  their  limmer, 

Or  shootin’  o’  a  hare  or  moorcock, 

The  ne’er  a  bit  they  ’re  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Cassar, 

Sure  great  folk’s  life ’s  a  life  o’  pleasure  ? 

Nae  cauld  or  hunger  e’er  can  steer  them, 

The  very  thought  o’ ’t  needna  fear  them. 

(LESAIt. 

L — ,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am, 

The  gentles  ye  wad  ne’er  envy  ’em. 

It ’s  true  they  needna  starve  or  sweat, 

Through  winter’s  cauld,  or  simmer’s  heat ; 

They ’ve  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
And  fill  auld  age  wi’  grips  and  granes  ; 

But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 

For  a’  their  colleges  and  schools, 

That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 

They  mak  enow  themsel’s  to  vex  them  ; 

And  aye  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them, 

In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 

A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugli, 

Ilis  acre ’s  tilled,  he ’s  right  enough  ; 

A  country  girl  at  her  wheel, 

Her  dizzen ’s  done,  she ’s  unco  weel : 

But  Gentlemen,  and  Ladies  warst, 

Wi’  even-down  want  o’  wark  are  curst. 

They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  and  lazy  ; 


TfTE  TWA  DOGS. 


214 

Though  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy  ; 
Their  days  insipid,  dull,  and  tasteless  ; 

Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  and  restless. 

And  e’en  their  sports,  their  balls  and  races, 
Their  galloping  through  public  places, 

There ’s  sic  parade,  sic  pomp  and  art, 

The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches, 

Then  sowther  a’  in  deep  debauches  ; 

Ae  night  they  ’re  mad  wi’  drink  and  w — ing, 
}siest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 

As  great  and  gracious  a’  as  sisters  ; 

But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o’  ither, 

They  ’re  a’  run  deils  and  jads  thegither. 
Whyles  o’er  the  wee  bit  cup  and  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty  ; 

Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi’  crabbit  leuks, 

Pore  owre  the  devil’s  pictured  beuks  ; 

Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer’s  stackyard, 

And  cheat  like  ony  unhanged  blackguard. 

There ’s  some  exception,  man  and  woman  ; 
But  this  is  Gentry’s  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o’  sight, 

And  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night  : 

The  bum-clock  hummed  wi’  lazy  drone  ; 

The  kye  stood  rowtin’  i’  the  loan  : 

When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 


TO  A  LOUSE.  215 

Rejoiced  they  were  na  men,  but  dogs  ; 

And  each  took  afF  his  several  way, 

Resolved  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


■4- 


TO  A  LOUSE, 

>N  SEEING  ONE  ON  A  LADV’S  BONNET  AT  CHURCH. 

TT A  !  where  ye  gaun,  ye  crawlin’  ferlie  ? 

Your  impudence  protects  you  saiidy  : 

I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 

Owre  gauze  and  lace  ; 

Though  faith,  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 
On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin’,  blastit  wonner, 

Detested,  shunned,  by  saunt  and  sinner, 

How  dare  you  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady  ? 

Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 
On  some  poor  body. 


Swith,  in  some  beggar’s  haffet  squattle  ; 

There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi’  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 

In  shoals  a*nd  nations  ; 

Wliare  horn  nor  bane  ne’er  daur  unsettle 
Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  you  there,  ye  ’re  out  o’  sight. 
Below  the  fatt’rels,  snug  and  tight ; 


2 16  TO  A  LOUSE. 

Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye  'll  no  be  right 
Till  ye  ’ve  got  on  it, 

The  very  tapmost,  towering  height 
O'  Miss’s  bonnet. 

My  sooth  !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out, 

As  plump  and  gray  as  ony  grozet ; 

Oh  tor  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum  ! 

I 'd  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  doze  o’ ’t, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum ! 

I  wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 

You  on  an  auld  wife’s  flannen  toy  ; 

Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On ’s  wyliecoat ; 

But  Miss’s  fine  Lunardi  !  fie  ! 

IIow  daur  ye  do ’t  ? 

Oh,  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 

And  set  your  beauties  a’  abroad  ! 

Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie ’s  makin’ ! 

Tliae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I  dread, 

Are  notice  takin’  ! 

Oh  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 

To  see  oursel’s  as  others  see  us  ! 

It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion  : 

What  ail’s  in  dress  and  gait  wad  lea’e  us, 
And  even  devotion  ! 


THE  ORDINATION. 


217 


THE  ORDINATION. 

For  sense  they  little  owe  to  frugtl  Heaven  — 

To  please  the  mob.  they  hide  the  little  given.” 

TT'ILMARNOCK  wabsters,  fhlge  and  claw, 
And  pour  your  creeshie  nations  ; 

And  ye  wha  leather  rax  and  draw, 

O’  a’  denominations, 

Switli  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  an  a’, 

And  there  tak  up  your  stations  ; 

Then  aff  to  Begbie’s  in  a  raw, 

And  pour  divine  libations 
For  joy  this  day. 

Curst  Common  Sense,  that  imp  o’  h — , 

Cam  in  wi’  Maggie  Lauder  ; 

But  Oliphant  aft  made  her  yell, 

And  Russell  sair  misca’d  her ; 

This  day  Mackiulay  taks  the  flail, 

And  he ’s  the  boy  will  blaud  her  1 

He  ’ll  clap  a  shangan  on  her  tail, 

And  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her 
Wi’  dirt  this  day. 

Mak  haste  and  turn  King  David  owre, 

And  lilt  wi’  holy  clangor  ; 

O’  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

And  skirl  up  the  Bangor  : 

This  day  the  Kirk  kicks  up  a  stoure, 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her, 

For  Heresy  is  in  her  power, 


218 


TIIE  ORDINATION. 

And  gloriously  she  ’ll  whang  her 
Wi’  pith  this  day. 

Come,  let  a  proper  text  be  read, 

And  touch  it  aff  wi’  vigour. 

How  graceless  Ham  leugh  at  his  dad, 
Which  made  Canaan  a  nio;<rer  ; 

Or  Phinehas  drove  the  murdering  blade, 
With  w —  abhorring  rigour  ; 

c?  O  7 

Or  Zipporah,  the  scauldin’  jad. 

Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

I’  the  inn  that  day. 

There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed, 

And  bind  him  down  wi’  caution, 

That  stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 
He  taks  but  for  the  fashion  ; 

And  gie  him  owre  the  flock  to  feed, 

And  punish  each  transgression  ; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin’ 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

Now,  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail, 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu’  canty  ; 

Nae  mair  thou  ’ll  rowte  out-owre  the  dale, 
Because  thy  pasture ’s  scanty  ; 

For  lapfu’s  large  o’  gospel  kail 
Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty, 

And  runts  o’  grace  the  pick  and  wale, 

No  gien  by  way  o’  dainty, 

But  ilka  day. 


TTIE  ORDINATION. 


219 

Nae  mair  by  Babel’s  streams  we  ’ll  weep. 

To  think  upon  our  Zion  ; 

And  king  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin’ : 

Come,  screw  the  pegs,  wi’  tunefu’  cheep, 

And  o’er  the  thairms  be  tryin’ ; 

Oh,  rare  !  to  see  our  elbucks  wheep, 

And  a’  like  lamb-tails  flyin’ 

Fu’  List  this  day. 

Lang,  Patronage,  wi’  rod  o’  airn, 

Has  shored  the  Kirk’s  undoin’, 

As  lately  Fenwick,  sail'  forfairn, 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin  : 

Our  patron,  honest  man  !  Glen^airn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewi  . , 

And  like  a  godly  elect  bairn 
He ’s  waled  us  out  a  true  ane, 

And  sound  this  day. 

Now,  Robertson,  harangue  nae  mair, 

But  steek  your  gab  for  ever ; 

Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  Ayr, 

For  there  they  ’ll  think  you  clever  , 

Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear, 

Ye  may  commence  a  shaver ; 

Or  to  the  Netherton  repair, 

And  turn  a  carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand  this  day. 

Mutrie  and  you  were  just  a  match. 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones  : 

Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigli  Kirk  watch. 


220  THE  ORDINATION. 

Just  like  a  winkin’  baudrons  : 

And  aye  he  catclied  the  tither  wretch, 
To  fry  them  in  his  eaudrons  : 

But  now  his  honour  maun  detach, 

Wi’  a’  his  brimstone  squadrons. 

Fast,  fast  this  day. 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy’s  faes 
She ’s  swingein  through  the  city  : 

Hark  how  the  nine-tailed  eat  she  plays  ! 

I  vow  it ’s  unco  pretty  : 

There  Learning,  with  his  Greekish  face, 
Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty, 

And  Common  Sense  is  gaun,  she  says, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie 

Her  plaint  this  dav 

But  there ’s  Morality  himsel’ 

Embracing  all  opinions  ; 

Hear  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell, 
Between  his  twa  companions  ; 

See  how  he  peels  the  skin  and  fell, 

As  ane  were  peelin’  onions  ! 

Now  there  —  they  ’re  packed  aff  to  h — , 
And  banished  our  dominions 

Henceforth  this  day. 

Oh  happy  day  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter 
Morality’s  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quarter : 
Mackinlay,  ltussell,  are  the  boys 
That  heresy  can  torture  : 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID.  221 

They  ’ll  gie  her  on  a  rape  a  hoyse, 

And  cowe  her  measure  shorter 

By  tli’  head  some  day. 

Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in. 

7  O 

And  here ’s  for  a  conclusion  :  — 

To  every  New  Light  mother’s  son, 

From  this  time  forth,  Confusion  ! 

If  mair  they  (leave  us  wi’  their  din, 

Or  Patronage  intrusion, 

We  ’ll  light  a  spunk,  and  every  skin 
We  ’ll  rin  them  aff  in  fusion, 

Like  oil  some  day. 

— * — 

AN  4  DDR  ESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID,  OR  THE 
RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

u  My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule. 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither  : 

The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool, 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither. 

The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 
May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff  in  ; 

So  ne’er  a  fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o’  daffin.” 

Solomon.  —  Eccles.  vii  115. 

(  \PI  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel’, 

^  Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 

Ye  ’ve  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neebour’s  fauts  and  folly  :  — 

Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 
Supplied  wi’  store  o’  water, 

The  heaped  happer ’s  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter  :  — 


222  ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUI  I). 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 

That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom’s  door 
For  glaikit  Folly’s  portals  ! 

I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 
Would  here  propone  defences, 

Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

0 

Ye  see  your  state  wi’  theirs  compared, 
And  shudder  at  the  niffer  : 

But  cast  a  moment’s  fair  regard, 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 

Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave 
That  purity  ye  pride  in, 

And  (what ’s  aft  mair  than  a’  the  lave) 
Your  better  art  o’  hiding. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 
Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 

What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 
That  still  eternal  gallop  ; 

Wi’  wind  and  tide  fair  i’  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 

But  in  the  teeth  o’  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  lee-way. 

See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 

Till,  quite  transmugrified,  they  ’re  grown 
Debauchery  and  Drinking. 

Oh  would  they  stay  to  calculate 
Th’  eternal  consequences  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID. 

Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state, 
Damnation  of  expenses  ! 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 

Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 
Suppose  a  change  o’  cases  ; 

A  dear-loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination  — 

But,  let  me  whisper  i’  your  lug, 

Ye  ’re  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 

Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin’  wrang, 
To  step  aside  is  human  : 

One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it  : 

And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 
How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  ’t  is  He  alone 
Decidedly  can  try  us  ; 

He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various  tone, 
Each  spring  —  its  various  bias. 

Then  at  the  balance  let ’s  be  mute  ; 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 

What’s  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what ’s  resisted. 


22? 


224  THE  INVENTOR  Y. 

THE  INVENTORY. 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  MANDATE  1*>Y  THE  SURVEYOR  OF 

THE  TAXES. 

OIIl,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 

^  I  send  you  here  a  faithfiT  list 
O’  gudes  and  gear,  and  a’  my  graith, 

To  which  I ’m  clear  to  gie  my  aith. 

Imprimis ,  then,  for  carriage-cattle, 

I  have  four  brutes  o’  gallant  mettle, 

As  ever  drew  afore  a  pettle. 

My  han’  afore ’s  a  gude  auld  has-been, 

And  wight  and  wilfu’  a’  his  days  been. 

My  han’  ahin ’s  a  weel-gaun  filly, 

That  aft  has  borne  me  hame  frae  Killie, 
And  your  auld  burro’  monie  a  time, 

In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime. 

But  ance,  whan  in  my  wooing  pride, 

I  like  a  blockhead  boost  to  ride, 

The  wilfu’  creature  sae  I  pat  to 

(L — ,  pardon  all  my  sins,  and  that  too  !) 

1  played  my  filly  sic  a  shavie, 

She ’s  a’  bedevil’d  wi’  the  spavie. 

My  fur  ahin ’s  a  wordy  beast, 

As  e’er  in  tu£  or  tow  was  traced. 

The  fourth ’s  a  Highland  Donald  hastie, 

A  d — d  red  wud  Kilburnie  blastie  ! 

Forbye  a  cowte  o’  cowtes  the  wale, 

As  ever  ran  afore  a  tail, 

If  he  be  spared  to  be  a  beast, 

He  ’ll  draw  me  fifteen  pun’  at  least. 


THE  INVENTORY.  225 

Wheel-carriages  I  hae  but  few, 

Three  carts,  and  twa  are  feckly  new  ; 

Ae  auld  wheelbarrow,  mair  for  token 
Ae  lesr  and  baitli  the  trams  are  broken  ; 

I  made  a  poker  o’  the  spin’le, 

And  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trin’le. 

For  men,  I ’ve  three  mischievous  boys, 

Run  deils  for  rantin’  and  for  noise  ; 

A  sraudsman  ane,  a  thrasher  t’  other, 

W  ee  Davock  bauds  the  nowt  in  t'other. 

I  rule  them,  as  I  ought,  discreetly, 

And  aften  labour  them  completely ; 

And  aye  on  Sundays  duly,  nightly, 

I  on  the  Questions  targe  them  tightly  ; 

Till,  faith,  wee  Davock ’s  turned  sae  gleg, 
Though  scarcely  langer  than  your  leg, 
lie  ’ll  screed  you  aff  Effectual  Calling, 

As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 

I ’ve  nane  in  female  servin’  station 
(L —  keep  me  aye  frae  a’  temptation  !) 

I  hae  nae  wife  —  and  that  my  bliss  is, 

And  ye  have  laid  nae  tax  on  misses. 

WT  weans  I’m  mair  than  weel  contented, 
Heaven  sent  me  ane  mae  than  I  wanted 
My  sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess, 

She  stares  the  daddy  in  her  face, 

Enough  of  ought  ye  like  but  grace  ; 

But  her,  my  bonny  sweet  wee  lady, 

I ’ve  paid  enough  for  her  already, 

And  gin  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 

B’  the  L —  !  ye  ’se  get  them  a’  thegither. 

VOL.  I.  15 


22fi  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  KENNEDY . 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 

Nae  kind  of  licence  out  I ’m  talcin’ ;  c  -  . 
My  travel  a’  on  foot  I  ’ll  shank  it, 

I ’ve  sturdy  bearers,  Gude  be  thankit.  .  . 
Sae  dinna  put  me  in  your  buke, 

Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  luke. 

This  list  wi’  my  ain  hand  I ’ve  wrote  it, 
The  day  and  date  as  under  noted  ; 

Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subscripsi  liuic ,  Robert  Burns. 

Mossgiel,  February  22,  1786. 


TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 


■VT"  OW,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse 

'  E’er  bring  you  in  by  Mauchline  Corse, 
L — ,  man,  there’s  lasses  there  wad  force 


A  hermit’s  fancy  ; 

And  down  the  gate,  in  faith,  they  ’re  worse. 
And  mair  unchancy. 


But,  as  I ’m  sayin’,  please  step  to  Dow’s. 
And  taste  sic  gear  as  Johnnie  brews, 
Till  some  bit  callan  bring  me  news 
That  you  are  there  ; 

And  if  we  dinna  hand  a  bonze, 

I  ’se  ne’er  drink  mair. 


It ’s  no  I  like  to  sit  and  swallow, 

Then  like  a  swine  to  puke  and  wallow  ; 


ON  HANNAH  MORE'S  WORKS.  227 

But  gie  me  just  a  true  guid  fallow, 

Wi’  right  engine, 

And  spunkie,  anee  to  make  us  mellow, 

And  then  we  ’ll  shine. 


Now,  if  ye  ’re  ane  o’  warld’s  folk, 

Wha  rate  the  wearer  by  the  cloak, 

And  sklent  on  poverty  their  joke, 

Wi’  bitter  sneer, 

Wi’  you  no  friendship  will  I  troke, 

Nor  cheap  nor  dear. 

But  if,  as  I ’m  informed  weel, 

Ye  hate,  as  ill ’s  the  very  deil, 

The  flinty  heart  that  canna  feel, 

Come,  sir,  here ’s  tae  you  ! 
Hae,  there ’s  my  han’,  I  wiss  you  weel, 
And  guid  be  wi’  you  ! 

R.  B. 

— ♦ — 


INSCRIBED  ON  THE  BLANK-LEAF  OF  A  COPY 
OF  MISS  HANNAH  MORE’S  WORKS,  PRE¬ 
SENTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


rpIIOU  flattering  mark  of  friendship  kind, 
Still  may  thy  pages  call  to  mind 
The  dear,  the  beauteous  Donor  : 

Though  sweetly  female  every  part, 

Yet  such  a  head,  and  more  the  heart. 

Does  both  the  sexes  honour. 

She  shewed  her  taste  refined  and  just 
When  she  selected  thee, 

Yet  deviating  own  I  must, 


228 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 


In  sae  approving  me  ; 

But  kind  still,  I  ’ll  mind  still 
The  Giver  in  the  gift  — 
I’ll  bless  her,  and  wiss  her 
A  friend  aboon  the  lift. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 


ON  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH  IN  APRIL* 

1786. 


3,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 


Thou ’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amanji  the  stoure 

O 


Thv  slender  stem  : 


To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power. 


Thou  bonny  gem. 


Alas !  it ’s  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 

The  bonny  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi’  speckled  breast, 

When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east ! 

Canid  blew  the  bitter  biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DA  IS  Y.  229 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 

Ilio-h  sheltering  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield  : 

O  o  # 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 
In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starr’d ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er  ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  hum  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 

O 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 
To  misery’s  brink, 


?30  THE  LAMENT. 

Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 
He,  ruined,  sink  ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn’st  the  Daisy’s  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ; 

Stern  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight, 
Shall  be  thy  doom. 

— ♦ — 

LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED  BY  TIIE  UNFORTUNATE  ISSUE  OF  A 
FRIEND’S  AMOUR. 

“  Alas  !  how  oft  does  goodness  wound  itself, 

And  sweet  affection  prove  the  spring  of  woe  !  ”  —  Uomb 

/  All  thou  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines, 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep  ! 
Thou  seest  a  wretch  who  inly  pines, 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep ! 

With  woe  I  nightly  vigils  keep 

Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam ; 

And  mohra,  in  lamentation  deep, 

IIow  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream. 

1  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 
The  faintly-marked  distant  hill : 

I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn 
Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill : 

My  fondly-fluttering  heart  be  still ! 

Thou  busy  power,  remembrance,  cease ! 


THE  LAMENT . 

Ah  !  must  the  agonising  thrill 
For  ever  bar  returning  peace  ! 

No  idly-feigned  poetic  pains 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim  , 

No  shepherd’s  pipe  —  Arcadian  strains  ; 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame  : 

The  plighted  faith,  the  mutual  flame, 

The  oft-attested  Powers  above, 

The  promised  father’s  tender  name  — 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love  ! 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptured  moments  flown  ! 
How  have  I  wished  for  fortune’s  charms 
For  her  dear  sake,  and  here  alone  ! 

And  must  I  think  it !  —  is  she  gone, 

My  secret  heart’s  exulting  boast  ? 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  ? 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 

Oh  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart, 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth, 

As  from  the  fondest  lover  part, 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ! 

Alas  !  life’s  path  may  be  unsmooth  ! 

Her  way  may  lie  through  rough  distress  ! 
Then  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe, 
Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them  less  ? 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o’er  us  passed, 
Enraptured  more,  the  more  enjoyed, 
Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast, 


231 


‘232  THE  LAMENT. 

My  fondly-treasured  thoughts  employed. 

That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room  ! 

«/ 

Even  every  ray  of  hope  destroyed, 

And  not  a  wish  to  gild  the  gloom  ! 

The  morn  that  warns  th’  approaching  day. 
Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe  : 

[  see  the  hours  in  long  array, 

v_-'  »  ' 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering,  sIoav. 

Full  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  throe, 

Keen  recollection’s  direful  train, 

Must  Avring  my  soul  ere  Phoebus,  Ioav, 

Shall  kiss  the  distant  Avestern  main. 

And  Avhen  my  nightly  couch  I  try, 

Sore  harassed  out  Avith  care  and  grief, 

My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-Avorn  eye 
Keep  Avatchings  Avith  the  nightly  thief. 

Or  if  I  slumber,  fancy,  chief, 

Reigns  haggard-wild  in  sore  affright : 

Even  day,  all  bitter,  brings  relief 
From  such  a  horror-breathing  night. 

Oh  thou  bright  queen,  Avdio  o’er  th’  expanse, 
Noav  highest  reign’st,  with  boundless  sway  J 
Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 

Observed  us,  fondly-wandering,  stray  ! 

The  time  unheeded  sped  UAvay, 

While  love’s  luxurious  pulse  beat  high, 
Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 


DESPONDENCY.  233 

Oh  scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set  ! 

Scenes  never,  never  to  return  ! 

Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I  forget, 

Again  I  feel,  again  I  burn  ! 

From  every  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life’s  weary  vale  I  ’ll  wander  through  ; 

And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I  ’ll  mourn 
A  faithless  woman’s  broken  vow. 


DESPONDENCY. 

AN  ODE. 

/"OPPRESSED  with  grief,  oppressed  with  care, 
A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear, 

I  set  me  down  and  sigh  : 

Oh  life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 

Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 

Dim-backAvard  as  I  cast  my  view, 

What  sickening  scenes  appear  ! 

What  sorroAvs  yet  may  pierce  me  through, 

Too  justly  I  may  fear  ! 

Still  caring,  despairing, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom  ; 

My  Avoes  here  shall  close  ne’er 
But  Avith  the  closing  tomb  ! 

Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life, 

Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 

No  other  view  regard  ! 

Even  when  the  wished  end ’s  denied, 


234  DESPONDENCY. 

Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  plied, 
They  bring  their  own  reward  : 

Whilst  I,  a  hope-abandoned  wight, 
Unfitted  with  an  aim, 

Meet  every  sad  returning  night 
And  joyless  morn  the  same. 

You,  bustling,  and  justling, 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain  ; 

I,  listless,  yet  restless, 

Find  every  prospect  vain. 

How  blest  the  solitary’s  lot, 

Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell, 

The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  roots, 

Sits  o’er  his  newly-gathered  fruits, 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 

Or  haply  to  his  evening  thought, 

By  unfrequented  stream, 

The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 

A  faint  collected  dream  ; 

While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  Heaven  on  high, 
As  wand’ring,  meand’ring, 

He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  placed, 

Where  never  human  footstep  traced, 
Less  fit  to  play  the  part ; 

The  lucky  moment  to  improve, 

And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move, 

AVith  self-respecting  art. 

But  ah  !  those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joys, 


TO  RUIN. 


235 


Which  I  too  keenly  taste, 
The  solitary  can  despise, 


Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 
lie  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate, 

Vt  hilst  I  here,  must  cry  here 
At  perfidy  ingrate  ! 

Oh  enviable,  early  days, 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasure’s  maze, 
To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 

IIow  ill  exchanged  for  riper  times, 

To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes, 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 

Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush, 

Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 

When  manhood  is  your  wish  ! 

The  losses,  the  crosses, 

That  active  man  engage  ! 

The  fears  all,  the  tears  all, 

Of  dim  declining  age. 

O  O 


♦ 


TO  KUIN. 


LL  hail  !  inexorable  lord, 


At  whose  destruction-breathing  word 

© 

The  mightiest  empires  fall ! 

1  hv  cruel,  woe-delighted  train, 

I  he  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all  ! 


236 


SONG. 

With  stern-resolved,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aimed  dart ; 

For  one  lias  cut  my  dearest  tie, 

And  quivers  in  my  heart. 

Then  lowering  and  pouring, 

The  storm  no  more  I  dread  ; 

Though  thickening  and  black’ning 

<D  O  O 

Round  my  devoted  head. 

And  thou  grim  Power,  by  life  abhorred. 

While  life  a  pleasure  can  afford, 

Oh  hear  a  wretch’s  prayer  ! 

No  more  I  shrink  appalled,  afraid  : 

I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid, 

To  close  this  scene  of  care  ! 

When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace, 
Resign  life’s  joyless  day  ; 

My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease, 
Cold  mouldering  in  the  clay  ? 

No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 

To  stain  my  lifeless  face  ; 

Enclasped  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace  1 


SONG. 

A  GAIN  rejoicing  Nature  sees 

Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues  ; 
Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

All  freshly  steeped  in  morning  dews. 


« 


SONG. 


237 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw, 

In  vain  to  me  the  violets  spring ; 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw, 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 

Wi’  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks  ; 

But  life  to  me ’s  a  weary  dream, 

A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 

And  everything  is  blest  but  I. 

The  shepherd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 

And  owre  the  moorland  whistles  shrill  ; 

Wi’  wild,  unequal,  wandering  step, 

I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  when  the  lark,  ’tween  light  and  dark, 
Blithe  waukens  by  the  daisy’s  side, 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 

A  woe-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide. 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl, 

And  ravins  bend  the  naked  tree  : 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul, 
When  Nature  all  is  sad  like  me  ! 


238  NOTE  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 


NOTE  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

T  HOLD  it,  sir,  my  bounden  duty, 

To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootie, 
Alias,  Laird  M’Gaun, 

Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
’Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day, 

And  wad  hae  done ’t  aff  han’ : 

But  lest  he  learn  the  callan  tricks, 

As,  faith,  I  muckle  doubt  him, 

Like  scrapin’  out  auld  Crummie’s  nicks, 
And  tellin’  lies  about  them  ; 

As  lieve  then,  I ’d  have  then, 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair, 

If  sae  be  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  other  where. 

Although  I  say ’t,  he ’s  gleg  enough, 

And  ’bout  a  house  that ’s  rude  and  rough, 
The  boy  might  learn  to  swear  ; 

But  then  wi’  you  he  ’ll  be  sae  taught, 

And  get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I  havena  ony  fear. 

Ye  ’ll  catechise  him  every  quirk, 

And  shore  him  weel  wi’  h — , 

And  car  him  follow  to  the  kirk  — 

Aye  when  ye  gang  yoursel’. 

If  ye,  then,  maun  be,  then. 

Frae  hame  this  coinin’  Friday; 
Then  please,  sir,  to  lea’e,  sir, 

The  orders  wi’  your  leddy. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND.  239 

My  word  of  honour  I  hae  gien, 

In  Paisley  John’s,  that  night  at  e’en, 

To  meet  the  warld’s  worm  ; 

To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 

And  name  the  airles  and  the  fee, 

In  legal  mode  and  form. 

I  ken  he  weel  a  sneck  ean  draw, 

When  simple  bodies  let  him  ; 

And  if  a  devil  be  at  a’. 

In  faith  he ’s  sure  to  get  him. 

To  phrase  you,  and  praise  you, 

Ye  ken  your  Laureate  scorns : 

The  prayer  still,  you  share  still, 

Ol'  grateful  Minstrel  Burns. 

© 


♦ 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

T  LANG  hae  thought,  my  youthfu’  friend, 
A  something  to  have  sent  you, 

Though  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 
Than  just  a  kind  memento  ; 

But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang, 

Let  time  and  chance  determine  ; 

Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

Ye  ’ll  try  the  world  fu’  soon,  my  lad, 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 

Ye  ’ll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 


240  EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye. 

For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 
Even  when  your  end ’s  attained  ; 

And  a’  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 
Where  every  nerve  is  strained. 

L  ’ll  no  say  men  are  villains  a’ ; 

The  real,  hardened  wicked, 

Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law, 

Are  to  a  few  restricked  : 

But,  oeh  !  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

And  little  to  be  trusted  ; 

If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 

It ’s  rarely  right  adj  usted  ! 

Yet  they  wha  fa’  in  fortune’s  strife, 
Their  fate  we  should  na  censure, 

For  still  th’  important  end  of  life 
They  equally  may  answer  : 

A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 
Though  poortith  hourly  stare  him ; 

A  man  may  tak  a  neibor’s  part, 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  free,  aff  han’  your  story  tell, 

When  wi’  a  bosom  crony  ; 

But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel* 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 

Conceal  yoursel’  as  weel ’s  ye  can 
Frae  critical  dissection, 

But  keek  through  every  other  man 
Wi’  sharpened,  sly  inspection. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

The  sacred  lowe  o’  weel-placed  love, 
Luxuriantly  indulge  it  ; 

But  never  tempt  tli’  illicit  rove, 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it. 

[  waive  the  quantum  o’  the  sin, 

The  hazard  of  concealing ; 

But,  och  !  it  hardens  a’  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  !  . 

To  catch  Dame  Fortune’s  golden  smile, 
Assiduous  wait  upon  her  ; 

And  gather  gear  by  every  wile 
That’s  justified  by  honour  ; 

Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train-attendant, 

But  for  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o’  hell ’s  a  hangman’s  whip. 
To  hand  the  wretch  in  order  ; 

But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip, 
Let  that  aye  be  your  border  : 

Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause  — 
Debar  a’  side-pretences  ; 

And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  Great  Creator  to  revere 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  , 

But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear. 
And  even  the  rigid  feature. 

Vet  ne’er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 
Be  complaisance  extended  : 

VOL.  i.  16 


241 


242  EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND 


An  Atheist  laugh ’s  a  poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended  ! 

When  ranting  round  in  Pleasure’s  ring, 
Religion  may  be  blinded  ; 

Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded  ; 

But  when  on  life  we  ’re  tempest-driven, 
A  conscience  but  a  canker, 

A  correspondence  fixed  wi’  Heaven 
Is  sure  a  noble  anchor ! 


Adieu,  dear  amiable  youth  ! 

Your  heart  can  ne’er  be  wanting  ! 

May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth, 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 

In  ploughman  phrase,  “  God  send  you  speed,” 
Still  daily  to  grow  wiser  ; 

And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede 
Than  ever  did  th’  adviser  ! 1 


i  In  a  copy  of  this  poem  in  Burns’s  own  hand,  and  bearing 
date  “  Mossgiel,  May  15th,  1786,”  there  occurs  an  additional 
stanza  which  the  admirable  taste*  of  the  poet  had  doubtless  ob¬ 
served  to  be  below  the  rest  in  terseness  and  point,  and  which  he 
had  therefore  seen  fit  to  omit.  It  throws  so  valuable  a  light  on 
the  state  of  his  own  mind  at  this  crisis,  that  it  certainly  ought 
not  to  be  suppressed,  though  we  should  not  desire  to  see  it  re¬ 
placed  in  the  poem.  It  occurs  immediately  after  the  line,  ;‘And 
petrifies  the  feeling.” 

If  ye  hae  made  a  step  aside, 

Some  hap  mistake  o'erta'en  you, 

Yet  still  keep  up  a  decent  pride. 

And  ne’er  o'er  far  demean  you. 

Time  comes  wi’  kind  oblivious  shade, 

And  daily  darker  sets  it, 

And  if  nae  mair  mistakes  are  made, 

The  world  soon  forgets  it. 


FLOW  GENTLY ,  SWEET  AFT  ON.  243 


FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON. 

Tune —  The  Yellow-haired  Laddie. 

Tj^LOW  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 
•*“  braes, 

Flow  gently,  I  ’ll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise  ; 
My  Mary ’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  through  the 
glen, 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing  thy  screaming  for¬ 
bear, 

I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills, 

Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding 
rills  ; 

There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary’s  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow  ; 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 

The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides  ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 

As  gathering  sweet  flowerets  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave. 


4. 

244  THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Aft  on,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays  ; 
My  Mary ’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

— ♦ — 

THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE. 

"\TAE  gentle  dames,  though  e’er  sae  fair, 

^  Shall  ever  be  my  Muse’s  care  • 

Their  titles  a’  are  empty  show  ; 

Gie  me  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 

Aboon  the  plains  sae  rushy,  O, 

I  set  me  down  wi*  right  good-will, 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Oh  were  yon  hills  and  valleys  mine, 

Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine, 

The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I  bear  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

But  fickle  Fortune  frowns  on  me, 

And  I  maun  cross  the  raging  sea ; 

But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow, 

I  ’ll  love  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Although  through  foreign  climes  I  range, 

o  O  o  O  I 

T  know  her  heart  will  never  change, 

For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour’s  glow, 

My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  O. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  MARY. 

For  her  I  ’ll  dare  the  billows’  roar, 

For  her  I  ’ll  trace  a  distant  shore, 

That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 
Around  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand, 

By  sacred  truth  and  honour’s  band  ! 
’Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 
I ’m  thine,  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O  ! 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O  ! 
To  other  lands  I  now  must  go, 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 


— « — 

A  PRAYER  FOR  MARY. 

T>OWERS  celestial  !  whose  protection 
Ever  guards  the  virtuous  lair, 

While  in  distant  climes  I  wander, 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care  : 

Let  her  form  sae  fair  and  faultless, 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own, 

Let  my  Mary’s  kindred  spirit 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down 

Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her 
Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast ; 
Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her. 
Soothe  her  bosom  into  rest : 


245 


246  WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  INDIES t 

Guardian  angels  !  oh,  protect  her 
When  in  distant  lands  I  roam  ; 

To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  me, 
Make  her  bosom  still  my  home. 


WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  INDIES,  MY  MARY? 


\\TILL  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
And  leave  auld  Scotia’s  shore  ? 
Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  the  Atlantic’s  roar  ? 


Oh  sweet  grow  the  lime  and  the  orange, 
And  the  apple  on  the  pine ; 

But  a’  the  charms  o’  the  Indies 
Can  never  equal  thine. 


I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 
I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  true ; 
And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me 
When  I  forget  my  vow  ! 


Oh  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand  ; 
Oh  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia’s  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join  ; 

And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us, 
The  hour  and  the  moment  o’  time ! 


THOUGH  CRUEL  FATE .  2\1 

ELIZA. 

Tun  ii  —  Gilderoy. 

Jj^ROM  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go, 

And  from  my  native  shore  : 

The  cruel  fates  between  us  throw 
A  boundless  ocean’s  roar; 

But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide 
Between  my  love  and  me, 

They  never,  never  can  divide 
My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear. 

The  maid  that  I  adore ! 

A  boding  voice  is  in  my  ear, 

We  part  to  meet  no  more  ! 

But  the  last  throb  that  leaves  my  heart. 

While  death  stands  victor  by, 

That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part, 

And  thine  that  latest  sigh  ! 

© 


THOUGH  CRUEL  FATE.1 
Tune  —  The  Northern  Lass. 

HPHOUGH  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, 
Far  as  the  pole  and  line; 

Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 
Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Though  mountains  rise  and  deserts  howl, 
And  oceans  roar  between, 

Yet  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 

1  See  tt/ae,  iQ. 


5>4S  ADDRESS  OF  BEELZEBUB. 


ADDKESS  OF  BEELZEBUB. 

J^ONG  life,  my  lord,  and  health  be  yours, 
Unscaithed  by  hungered  Highland  boors  ; 
Lord,  grant  nae  duddie  desperate  beggar, 

Wi’  dirk,  claymore,  or  rusty  trigger, 

May  twin  auld  Scotland  o’  a  life 
She  likes  —  as  lambkins  like  a  knife. 

Faith,  you  and  Applecross  were  right 
To  keep  the  Highland  hounds  in  sight  ; 

I  doubt  na !  they  wad  bid  nae  better 
Than,  let  them  ance  out  owre  the  water, 

Then  up  amang  thae  lakes  and  seas, 

They  ’ll  mak  what  rules  and  laws  they  please 
Some  daring  Hancock,  or  a  Franklin, 

May  set  their  Highland  bluid  a-ranklin’ ; 

Some  Washington  again  may  head  them, 

Or  some  Montgomery,  fearless,  lead  them, 

Till  God  knows  what  may  be  effected, 

When  by  such  heads  and  hearts  directed. 
Poor  dunghill  sons  of  dirt  and  mire 
May  to  patrician  rights  aspire  ! 

Nae  sage  North  now,  nor  sager  Sackville, 

To  watch  and  premier  o’er  the  pack  vile, 

And  whare  will  ye  get  Howes  and  Clintons 
To  bring  them  to  a  right  repentance, 

To  cowe  the  rebel  generation, 

And  save  the  honour  o’  the  nation  ? 

They,  and  be  d - !  what  right  hae  they 

To  meat  or  sleep,  or  light  o’  day  ? 

Far  less  to  riches,  power,  or  freedom, 

But  what  your  lordship  likes  to  gie  them  ? 


ADDRESS  OF  BEELZEBUB.  249 

But  hear,  my  lord !  Glengarry,  hear ! 

Your  hand ’s  owre  light  on  them,  I  fear; 

Your  factors,  grieves,  trustees,  and  bailies, 

I  canna  say  but  they  do  gaylies ; 

They  lay  aside  a’  tender  mercies, 

And  tirl  the  bullions  to  the  birses  ; 

Yet  while  they  ’re  only  poind’t  and  herriet, 
They  ’ll  keep  their  stubborn  Highland  spirit ; 
But  smash  them,  crash  them  a’  to  spails  ! 

And  rot  the  dyvors  i’  the  jails  ! 

The  young  dogs,  swinge  them  to  the  labour ; 
Let  wark  and  hunger  mak  them  sober ! 

The  hizzies,  if  they  ’re  oughtlins  fawsont, 

Let  them  in  Drury  Lane  be  lessoned ! 

And  if  the  wives  and  dirty  brats 
E’en  thigger  at  your  doors  and  yetts, 

FlafTan  wi’  duds  and  gray  wi’  beas’, 

Frhditin’  awa’  vour  deucks  and  geese, 

Get  out  a  horsewhip  or  a  jowler, 

The  langest  thong,  the  fiercest  growler, 

And  gar  the  tattered  gipsies  pack, 

Wi’  a’  their  bastards  on  their  back ! 

Go  on,  my  lord  !  I  lang  to  meet  you, 

And  in  my  house  at  hame  to  greet  you. 

Wi’  common  lords  ye  shanna  mingle ; 

The  benmost  neuk  beside  the  ingle, 

At  my  right  han’  assigned  your  seat 
’Tween  Herod’s  hip  and  Polycrate  — 

Or,  if  you  on  your  station  tarrow, 

Between  Almagro  and  Pizarro, 

A  seat,  I ’m  sure,  ye  ’re  weel  deservin ’t ; 

And  till  ye  come  —  lrour  humble  servant, 

Beelzebub. 

June  IsL  Anno  Mundi  5790  [ A.D .  1786]. 


250  A  DREAM 

A  DREAM. 

Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds  the  statute  blames  with  reason; 

But  surely  dreams  were  ne’er  indicted  treason.” 

/^UID-MORNIN’  to  your  Majesty! 

^  May  Heaven  augment  your  blisses, 

On  every  new  birthday,  ye  see, 

A  humble  poet  wishes  ! 

My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee, 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is, 

Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Amang  thae  birthday  dresses 
Sae  fine  this  day. 

I  see  ye  ’re  complimented  thrang, 

By  many  a  lord  and  lady ; 

“  God  save  the  kino; !  ” ’s  a  cuckoo  sang 
That ’s  unco  easy  said  aye  ; 

The  poets,  too,  a  venal  gang, 

Wi’  rhymes  weel-turned  and  ready, 

Wad  gar  ye  trow  ye  ne’er  do  wrang, 

But  aye  unerring  steady, 

On  sic  a  day. 

For  me,  before  a  monarch’s  face 
Even  there  I  winna  flatter  ; 

For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 

Am  I  your  humble  debtor  : 

So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter  ; 

There ’s  mony  waur  been  o’  the  race, 

And  aiblins  ane  been  better 
Than  you  this  day. 


A  DREAM.  *251 

*T  is  very  true,  my  sovereign  king, 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted  : 

But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding. 

And  downa  be  disputed  : 

Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing, 

Is  e’en  right  reft  and  clouted, 

And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string, 

And  less,  will  gang  about  it 
Than  did  ae  day. 

Far  be ’t  frae  me  that  I  aspire 
To  blame  your  legislation, 

Or  say  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire, 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation  ! 

But  faith  !  I  muckle  doubt,  my  sire, 

Yre ’ve  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a  barn  or  byre, 

Wad  better  filled  their  station 
Than  courts  yon  day. 

And  now  ye ’ve  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 

Her  broken  shins  to  plaister, 

Your  sail*  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester. 

For  me,  thank  God,  my  life’s  a  lease, 

Nae  bargain  wearing  faster, 

Or,  faith  !  I  fear,  that,  wi’  the  geese, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I’  the  craft  some  day. 

1  'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

O  7 

When  taxes  he  enlarges, 

(And  Will ’s  a  true  guid  fallow’s  get, 


‘252 


A  DREAM. 

A  name  not  envy  spairges), 

That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

And  lessen  a’  your  charges  ; 

But  G —  sake  !  let  nae  saving  fit 
Abridge  your  bonny  barges 

And  boats  this  day. 

Adieu,  my  liege  !  may  Freedom  geek 
Beneath  your  high  protection  ; 

And  may  you  rax  Corruption’s  neck, 

And  gie  her  for  dissection. 

But  since  I ’m  here,  I  ’ll  no  neglect, 

In  loyal,  true  affection, 

To  pay  your  Queen,  with  due  respect, 

My  fealty  and  subjection 

This  great  birthday. 

Hail  Majesty  Most  Excellent  ! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye. 

Will  ye  accept  a  compliment 
A  simple  poet  gies  ye  ? 

Tliae  bonny  bairn-time  Heaven  has  lent, 
Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent, 

Forever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day 

For  you,  young  potentate  o’  Wales, 

I  tell  Your  Highness  fairly, 

Down  Pleasure’s  stream,  wi’  swelling  sads, 
I  ’in  tauld  ye  ’re  driving  rarely  ; 

But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 
And  curse  your  folly  sairly, 


A  DREAM.  2.r)3 

'That  e’er  ye  brak  Diana’s  pales, 

Or  rattled  dice  \vi’  Charlie, 

By  night  or  day. 

Yet  aft  a  1'ftcrcr  ed  cowte ’s  been  known 

“  o 

To  male  a  noble  aiver  ; 

So,  ye  may  doucely  fill  a  throne, 

For  a’  their  clish-ma-claver  : 

There,  him  at  Agincourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver ; 

And  yet,  wi’  funny,  queer  Sir  John, 

He  was  an  unco  shaver, 

,  For  monie  a  day. 

For  you,  Right  Reverend  Osnaburg, 

Kane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 

Although  a  ribbon  at  your  lug 
Wad  been  a  dress  completer  : 

As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 
That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 

Then,  swith  !  and  get  a  wife  to  hug, 

Or,  troutli !  ye  ’ll  stain  the  mitre 
Some  luckless  day. 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Breeks,  I  learn, 

Ye  ’ve  lately  come  athwart  her, 

A  p'lorious  o-allev,  stem  and  stern, 

Weel  rigged  for  Venus’  barter; 

But  first  hang  out,  that  she  ’ll  discern, 

Your  hymeneal  charter, 

Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple-airn, 

And,  large  upon  her  quarter, 

Come  full  that  day. 


254 


THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonny  blossoms  a’, 

Ye  royal  lassies  dainty, 

Heaven  mak  ye  guid  as  weel  as  braw, 
And  gie  you  lads  a-plenty. 

But  sneer  na  British  boys  awa’, 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  aye  ; 

And  German  gentles  are  but  sma’,  . 
They  ’re  better  just  than  want  aye 
On  ony  day. 

God  bless  you  a’ !  consider  now, 

Ye  Te  unco  muckle  dautet ; 

But  ere  the  course  o’  life  be  through, 
It  may  be  bitter  sautet : 

And  I  hae  seen  their  coggie  fou, 

That  yet  hae  tarrow’t  at  it ; 

But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 
Fu’  clean  that  day. 

— « — 

THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

*•  A  robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 
Ilid  crafty  observation  ; 

And  secret  hung,  with  poisoned  crust, 

The  dirk  of  Defamation  : 

A  mask  that  like  the  gorget  showed, 
Dye-varying  on  the  pigeon  ; 

And  for  a  mantle  large  and  broad, 

He  wrapt  him  in  Religion.” 

Hypocrisy  d-la-Mode 

TTPON  a  simmer  Sunday-morn, 

^  When  Nature’s  face  is  fair, 

I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 


255 


THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

And  snuff  the  cauler  air. 

The  rising  sun  o’er  Galston  muirs, 

Wi’  glorious  light  was  glintin’ ; 

The  hares  were  hirplin’  down  the  furs, 
The  lav’rocks  they  were  chantin’ 
Fu’  sweet  that  day. 

As  lightsomely  I  glowr’d  abroad, 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay, 

Three  hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin’  up  the  way. 

Twa  had  manteeles  o’  dolefu’  black, 
But  ane  wi’  lyart  lining  ; 

The  third,  that  gaed  a-wee  a-back, 
Was  in  the  fashion  shining, 

Fu’  gay  that  day. 

The  twa  appeared  like  sisters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  and  claes  ; 

Their  visage  withered,  lang,  and  thin, 
And  sour  as  ony  slaes. 

The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an’-lowp, 
As  light  as  ony  lambie, 

And  wi’  a  curchic  low  did  stoop, 

As  soon  as  e’er  she  saw  me, 

Fu’  kind  that  day. 

Wi’  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I :  “  Sweet  lass, 
I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me  ; 

I  ’in  sure  I ’ve  seen  that  bonny  face, 
But  yet  I  canna  name  ye.” 

Quo’  she,  and  laughin’  as  she  sp  ik, 
And  taks  me  by  the  hands : 


*256 


THE  HOL  r  FAIR. 


“  Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gien  the  feck 
Of  a’  the  ten  commands 

A  screed  some  day. 

“  My  name  is  Fun  — your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae  ; 

And  this  is  Superstition  here, 

And  that ’s  Hypocrisy. 

I ’m  gaun  to  Mauchline  Holy  Fair, 

o  j  i 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffin’  : 

Gin  ye’ll  go  there,  yon  runkled  pair, 

AVe  will  get  famous  laughin’ 

At  them  this  day.” 

Quoth  I :  “  AVith  a’  my  heart,  I  ’ll  do  ‘t ; 

I  ’ll  get  my  Sunday’s  sark  on, 

And  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot  — 

Faith,  we’se  hae  fine  remarkin’ !  ” 

Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time, 

And  soon  I  made  me  ready  ; 

For  roads  were  clad,  from  side  to  side, 

A\T  mony  a  weary  body, 

In  di  •oves  that  day. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin’  graith, 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cotters ; 

There,  swankies  young,  in  braw  braid  claith. 

Are  springin’  o’er  the  gutters. 

The  lasses,  skelpin’  barefit,  tlirang, 

In  silks  and  scarlets  glitter  ; 

AAT  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  monie  a  whang, 

7  tV 

And  farls  baked  wi’  butter, 

Fu’  crump  that  day. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.  257 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi’  ha’pence, 

A  greedy  glowr  Black-bonnet  throws, 

And  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 

Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show  ; 

On  every  side  they  ’re  gath’rin’, 

Some  carrying  dails,  some  chairs,  and  stools, 
And  some  are  busy  blethrin’ 

Right  loud  that  day. 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  showers, 

And  screen  our  country  gentry, 

There,  Racer  Jess,  and  twa-three  w - s. 

Are  blinkin’  at  the  entry. 

Here  sits  a  raw  of  tittlin’  jauds, 

Wi"  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck, 

And  there  a  batch  o’  wabster  lads, 
Blackguarding  frae  Kilmarnock 
For  fun  this  day. 

Here,  some  are  tliinkin’  on  their  sins, 

And  some  upo’  their  claes  ; 

Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl’d  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  and  prays  : 

On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi’  screwed-up,  grace-proud  faces  ; 

On  that  a  set  o’  chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin’  on  the  lasses 
To  chairs  that  day. 

Oh  happy  is  that  man  and  blest ! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him, 

Wha’s  ain  dear  lass,  that  lie  likes  best, 

VOL.  I.  17 


258  THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

Comes  clinkin’  doAvn  beside  him  ! 

Wi’  arm  reposed  on  the  chair-back. 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him  ; 

Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An ’s  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkenn’d  that  day. 

Now  a’  the  congregation  o’er 
Is  silent  expectation  : 

For  Moodie  speels  the  holy  door, 

Wi’  tidings  o’  d - tion.1 

Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o’  God  present  him, 

The  very  sight  o’  Moodie’s  face 
To ’s  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 
Wi’  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o’  Faith 
Wi’  rattlin’  and  wi’  thumpin’ ! 

Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 

He ’s  stampin’  and  he ’s  jumpin’ ! 

His  lengthened  chin,  his  turned-up  snout, 

His  eldritch  squeel  and  gestures, 

Oh  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout, 

Like  cantharidian  plasters, 

On  sic  a  day  ! 

But  hark  !  the  tent  has  changed  its  voice  : 

There ’s  peace  and  rest  nae  langer  ; 

For  a’  the  real  judges  rise, 

1  In  the  Kilmarnock  edition,  the  word  was  salvation  :  it  was 
changed  at  the  suggestion  of  Dr.  Blair  of  Edinburgh.  Moodie 
was  the  minister  of  Riccarton,  and  one  of  the  heroes  of  The  Twn 
H*rcts. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.  2  a!) 

They  canna  sit  for  anger. 

Smith  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals  ; 

And  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 

To  gie  the  jars  and  barrels 
A  lift  that  day. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine 
Of  moral  powers  and  reason  ? 

Ilis  English  style  and  gesture  fine 
Are  a’  clean  out  o’  season. 

Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen, 

The  moral  man  he  does  define, 

But  ne’er  a  word  o’  faith  in 

That ’s  right  that  day. 

In  fruid  time  conies  an  antidote 
Against  sic  poisoned  nostrum  ; 

For  Peebles,  frae  the  Water-fit, 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 

See,  up  he ’s  got  the  Word  o’  God, 

And  meek  and  mim  has  viewed  it, 

While  Common  Sense  has  ta’en  the  road, 
And  aff  and  up  the  Cowgate, 

Fast,  fast  that  day. 

W  ee  Miller  niest  the  guard  relieves, 

And  orthodoxy  raibles, 

Though  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes, 

And  thinks  it  auld  wives’  fables : 

But,  faith  !  the  birkie  wants  a  manse, 

So,  cannily  lie  hums  them  ; 


WO  7JE  HOLY  FAIR. 

Although  his  carnal  wit  and  sense 
Like  hafflins-ways  o’erconies  him 
At  times  that  day. 

Now  but  and  ben  the  change-house  fills, 
Wi’  yill-caup  commentators ; 

Here’s  crying  out  for  bakes  and  gills, 

And  there  the  pint-stoup  clatters  ; 

A  hile  thick  and  thrang,  and  loud  and  lang, 
Wi’  logic  and  wi’  scripture, 

They  raise  a  din,  that,  in  the  end, 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

O’  wrath  that  day. 

Leeze  me  on  drink  !  it  gies  us  mair 
Than  either  school  or  colleo-e  : 

O 

It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o’  knowledge. 

Be ’t  whisky  gill,  or  penny  wlieep, 

Or  ony  stronger  potion, 

It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  and  lasses,  blithely  bent 
To  mind  baith  saul  and  body, 

Sit  round  the  table  weel  content, 

And  steer  about  the  toddy. 

On  this  ane’s  dress,  and  that  ane’s  leuk, 
They  ’re  making  observations  ; 

While  some  are  cozie  i’  the  neuk, 

And  formin’  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.  20 1 

But  now  the  L — ’s  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a’  the  hills  are  rairin’. 

And  echoes  back  return  the  shouts  — 

Black  Russell  is  na  sparin’  : 

His  piercing  Avords,  like  Highland  savorIs, 
Divide  the  joints  and  marroAv  ; 

His  talk  o’  hell,  whare  devils  dwell. 

Our  vera  sauls  does  harrow 

Wi’  fright  that  day. 

A  vast,  unbottomed,  boundless  pit, 

Filled  fou  o’  loArin’  brunstane, 

Wha’s  ragin’  dame,  and  scorchin’  heat, 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  Avhunstane  . 

The  half-asleep  start  up  Avi’  fear, 

And  think  they  hear  it  roarin’, 

W  lien  presently  it  does  appear 
’T  Avas  but  some  neebor  snorin’, 

Asleep  that  day. 

’T  Avad  be  OAvre  lan<r  a  tale  to  tell 

o 

Hoav  monie  stories  past, 

And  Iioav  they  crowded  to  the  yill, 

When  they  Avere  a’  dismist  : 

Hoav  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  and  caups, 
Amang  the  forms  and  benches  : 

And  cheese  and  bread,  frae  Avomen’s  laps, 

W  as  dealt  about  in  lunches, 

And  dauds  that  day. 

In  comes  a  gaucy,  gash  guidAvife, 

And  sits  doAvn  by  the  fire, 

Syne  draAvs  her  kebbuck  and  her  knife  ; 


262 


T1IE  HOLY  FAIR. 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 

The  auld  guidmen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother. 

Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays, 

And  gies  them ’t  like  a  tether, 

Fu’  lang  that  day. 

Waesucks  !  for  him  that  gets  nae  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething ! 

Sma’  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or.  melvie  his  braw  clai thing  ! 

Oh  wives,  be  mindfu’  ance  yoursel* 

How  bonny  lads  ye  wanted, 

And  dinna,  for  a  kebbuck-heel, 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day  ! 

Now  Clinkumbell,1  wi’  rattlin’  tow, 

Begins  to  jow  and  croon  ; 

Some  swagger  hame,  the  best  they  dow. 

Some  wait,  the  afternoon. 

At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a  blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon  : 

AVi’  faith  and  hope,  and  love  and  drink, 
They  ’re  a’  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  dav. 

• 

How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 
O’  sinners  and  o’  lasses  ! 

Their  hearts  o’  stane,  gin  night,  are  gane, 
As  saft  as  ony  flesh  is.  * 

There ’s  some  are  fou  o’  love  divine  ; 

1  Arai'iation  —  “  Now  Robin  Gib,”  etc. 


GX  A  SCOTCH  BARD. 

There ’s  some  are  fou  o’  brandy  ; 
And  monie  jobs  that  day  begin 
May  end  in  houghmagandy 
Some  ither  day. 

— ♦ — 

ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD, 

GONE  TO  TITE  WEST  INDIES. 

A  ’  YE  wha  live  by  sowps  o’  drink, 

A’  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 

A’  ye  wha  live  and  never  think, 

Come,  mourn  wi’  me  ! 

Our  billie ’s  gien  us  a’  a  jink, 

And  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him  a’  ye  rantin’  core, 

Wha  dearly  like  a  random-splore, 

Nae  mair  he  ’ll  join  the  merry  roar 
In  social  key  ; 

For  now  he ’s  ta’en  anither  shore, 

And  owre  the  sea  ! 

Auld  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear, 
And  stain  them  wi’  the  saut,  saut  tear ; 
’T  will  mak  her  poor  auld  heart,  I  fear, 
In  flinders  flee  ; 

He  was  her  laureate  monie  a  year, 
That ’s  owre  the  sea. 

He  saw  misfortune’s  cauld  nor-west 
I  ang  mustering  up  a  bitter  blast ; 


263 


264 


ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD. 

A  jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

Ill  may  she  be  ! 

So,  took  a  berth  afore  the  mast, 

And  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  Fortune’s  cummock, 

On  scarce  a  bellyfu’  o’  drummock, 

Wi’  his  proud,  independent  stomach. 
Could  ill  agree; 

So  row’t  his  hurdies  in  a  hammock, 
And  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne’er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding, 

Yet  coin  his  pouches  wadna  bide  in; 

Wi’  him  it  ne’er  was  under  hiding  — 
He  dealt  it  free : 

The  Muse  was  a’  that  he  took  pride  in. 
That ’s  owre  the  sea. 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel, 

And  hap  him  in  a  cozie  biel : 

Yre  ’ll  find  him  aye  a  dainty  chiel, 

And  fou  o’  glee  ; 

He  wadna  wranged  the  very  dei’ 

That ’s  owre  the  sea. 

Fare  weel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie  \ 

Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie  ; 

But  may  ye  flourish  like  a  lily, 

Now  bonnilie  ! 

I  ’ll  toast  ye  in  my  hinmost  gillie, 
Though  owre  the  sea  ! 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH.  265 


A  BARD’S  EPITAPH. 

T  S  there  a  whim-inspired  tool, 

^  Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near  ; 

And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  draji>  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 

That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

Oh,  pass  not  by  ! 

But,  with  a  frater-feeling  strong, 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear, 

Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 

Yet  runs  himself  life’s  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 

Here  pause  —  and,  through  the  starting  tear 
Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below, 

Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame  ; 

But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stained  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend  —  whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy’s  flights  beyond  the  pole, 


266  DEDICATION  TO  GAVID  HAMILTON. 

Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit  ; 

Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 
Is  wisdom’s  root. 

— ♦ — 

DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esq. 

T^XPECT  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 

A  fleechin,  fletli’rin  dedication, 

To  roose  you  up,  and  ca’  you  guid, 

And  sprung  o’  great  and  noble  bluid, 

Because  ye  ’re  surnamed  like  his  Grace  ; 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race  ; 

Then  when  I  Tn  tired,  and  sae  are  ye, 

Wi’  monie  a  fulsome,  sinfu’  lie, 

Set  up  a  face,  how  I  stop  short, 

For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do  —  maun  do,  sir,  wi’  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a  wamefou ; 
For  me  !  sae  lamb  I  needna  bow, 

For,  L —  be  thankit,  I  can  plough  ; 

And  when  I  downa  yoke  a  naig, 

Then,  L —  be  thankit,  I  can  beg  ; 

Sae  I  shall  say,  and  that ’s  nae  flatterin’, 

It’s  just  sic  poet,  and  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him, 

Or  else,  I  fear,  some  ill  ane  skelp  him, 

He  may  do  weel  for  a’  he ’s  done  yet, 

But  only  he ’s  no  just  begun  yet. 


DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

The  Patron  (sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me. 

I  wanna  lie,  come  what  will  o’  me), 

On  every  hand  it  will  allowed  be, 

Tie ’s  just  —  nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readily  and  freely  grant, 

He  downa  see  a  poor  man  want 
What ’s  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it, 

What  ance  he  says  he  winna  break  it ; 
Ought  he  can  lend  he  ’ll  no  refus’t 
Till  aft  his  gudeness  is  abused  ; 

And  rascals  whiles  that  do  him  wrrang, 
Even  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  lang  : 

As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father, 

He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a’  that, 
Eae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca’  that ; 

It ’s  naething  but  a  milder  feature 
Of  our  poor  sinfu’,  corrupt  nature  : 

Ye  ’ll  get  the  best  o’  moral  works, 

’Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 
Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 

Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 

That  he ’s  the  poor  man’s  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 

It ’s  no  through  terror  of  d - tion  ; 

It’s  just  a  carnal  inclination. 

Morality,  thou  deadly  bane, 

Thy  tens  o’  thousands  thou  hast  slain  ! 
Vain  is  his  hope  Avhose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  ! 


267 


268  DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

No  —  stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack  : 

Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back  ; 

Steal  through  a  winnock  frae  a  w - , 

But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door  ;  - 

Be  to  the  poor  like  ony  whunstane, 

And  baud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane ~ 

Ply  every  art  o’  legal  thieving  ; 

No  matter  —  stick  to  sound  believing  ! 

© 

Learn  three-mile  prayers,  and  half-mile  graces, 
Wi’  weel-spread  looves,  and  lang  wry  faces  ; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengthened  groan, 

And  d —  a’  parties  but  your  own ; 

I  ’ll  warrant,  then,  ye  ’re  nae  deceiver  — 

A  steady,  sturdy,  stanch  believer. 

Oh  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  o’  Calvin, 

For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin’ ! 

Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 

Ye  ’ll  some  day  squeal  in  quaking  terror  ! 
When  Vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath  ; 

When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom, 

Just  frets,  till  Heaven  commission  gies  him  : 
While  o’er  the  harp  pale  Misery  moans, 

And  strikes  the  ever-deepening  tones, 

Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  ! 

Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this  digression, 

I  maist  forgot  my  dedication  ; 

But  when  divinity  comes  ’cross  me, 

My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 


DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON.  269 

So,  sir,  ye  see ’t  was  nae  daft  vapour, 

But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper, 

When  a’  my  works  I  did  review, 

To  dedicate  them,  sir,  to  you : 

Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 

I  thought  them  something  like  yourseP. 

Then  patronise  them  wi’  your  favour, 

And  your  petitioner  shall  ever - 

I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray, 

But  that ’s  a  word  I  need  na  say  : 

For  prayin’  I  hae  little  skill  o’ ’t ; 

I  ’in  baith  dead  sweer,  and  wretched  ill  o' ’t ; 
But  I  ’se  repeat  each  poor  man’s  prayer 
That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  sir  :  — 

“  May  ne’er  Misfortune’s  gowling  bark 
Howl  through  the  dwelling  o’  the  Clerk! 

May  ne’er  his  generous,  honest  heart, 

For  that  same  generous  spirit  smart  I 
May  Kennedy’s  far-honoured  name 
Lang  beat  his  hymeneal  dame, 

Till  Hamiltons,  at  least  a  dizzen, 

Are  by  their  canty  fireside  risen : 

Five  bonny  lasses  round  their  table, 

And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  and  able, 

To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel, 

By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 

May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays, 

Shine  on  the  evening  o’  his  days, 

Till  his  wee  curlie  John’s  ier-oe, 

When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow, 

The  last,  sad  mournful  rites  bestow.” 


?70  FAREWELL  TO  ST.  JAMES'S  LODGE . 

I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion 
With  complimentary  effusion  : 

But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are  blest  wi’  fortune’s  smiles  and  favours, 

I  am,  dear  sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 

Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  powers  above  prevent !) 

That  iron-hearted  carl,  Want, 

Attended  in  his  grim  advances 
By  sad  mistakes  and  black  mischances, 

While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly  him, 
Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am, 

Your  humble  servant  then  no  more ; 

For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor? 

But  by  a  poor  man’s  hopes  in  Heaven  1 
While  recollection’s  power  is  given, 

Tf,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life, 

The  victim  sad  of  fortune’s  strife, 

I,  through  the  tender-gushing  tear, 

Should  recognise  my  master  dear, 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 

Then,  sir,  your  hand  —  my  friend  and  brother  j 

— ♦ — 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  BRETHREN  OF  ST.  JAMES’S 
LODGE,  TORBOLTON. 

Tune —  Good-night ,  and  Joy  be  wi}  you  a\ 

A  DIEU  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu  ! 

Dear  brothel’s  of  the  mystic  tie  ! 

Ye  favoured,  ye  enlightened  few, 

Companions  of  my  social  joy. 


PARE  WELL  TO  ST.  JAMES'S  LODGE.  271 

Though  I  to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 

Pursuing  Fortune’s  slidd’ry  ba’. 

With  melting  heart,  and  brimful  eye, 

I  ’ll  mind  you  still,  though  far  awa’. 

Oft  have  I  met  your  social  band, 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night ; 

Oft,  honoured  with  supreme  command, 
Presided  o’er  the  Sons  of  Light : 

And  by  that  hieroglyphic  bright 

Which  none  but  Craftsmen  ever  saw  ! 

Strong  Memory  on  my  heart  shall  write 
Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa’. 

May  Freedom,  Harmony,  and  Love, 

Unite  you  in  the  grand  design , 

Beneath  the  Omniscient  Eye  above, 

The  glorious  Architect  Divine  ! 

That  you  may  keep  the  unerring  line , 

Still  rising  by  the  plummet's  law , 

Till  Order  bright  completely  shine, 

Shall  be  my  prayer  when  far  awa’. 

And  you,  farewell !  whose  merits  claim, 
Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear ! 

Heaven  bless  your  honoured,  noble  name, 

To  masonry  and  Scotia  dear ! 

A  last  request  permit  me  here, 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a’, 

One  round — I  ask  it  with  a  tear  — 

To  him,  the  Bard  that ’s  far  awa\ 


272  THE  SONS  OF  OLD  KILL  IE. 


ON  A  PROCESSION  OF  THE  ST.  JAMES’S  LODGE 


RID  AY  first’s  the  day  appointed 
By  the  Right  Worshipful  anointed, 

To  hold  our  grand  procession  ; 

To  get  a  blad  o’  Johnnie’s  morals, 

And  taste  a  swatch  o’  Manson’s  barrels, 

I’  the  way  of  our  profession. 

The  Master  and  the  Brotherhood 
Would  a’  be  glad  to  see  you ; 

For  me  I  would  be  mair  than  proud 
To  share  the  mercies  wi’  you. 

If  Death,  then,  wi’  skaith,  then, 

Some  mortal  heart  is  hechtin’, 

Inform  him,  and  storm  him, 

That  Saturday  you  ’ll  feclit  him. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  SONS  OF  OLD  KILLIE. 

Tone  — Shaivnboy. 

YE  sons  °f*  old  Ivillie,  assembled  by  Willie, 

To  follow  the  noble  vocation ; 

Your  thrifty  old  mother  has  scarce  such  another 
To  sit  in  that  honoured  station. 

I ’ve  little  to  say,  but  only  to  pray, . 

As  praying ’s  the  ton  of  your  fashion ; 

A  prayer  from  the  Muse  you  well  may  excuse, 

’T  is  seldom  her  favourite  passion. 

le  powers  who  preside  o’er  the  wind  and  the  tide, 
Who  marked  each  element’s  border ; 


i  HE  BONNIE  LASS  O'  BALL 0 CUM YL E.  273 

Who  formed  this  frame  with  beneficent  aim, 
Whose  sovereign  statute  is  order  ; 

Within  this  dear  mansion  may  wayward  Contention 
Or  withered  Envy  ne’er  enter  ; 

May  Secrecy  round  be  the  mystical  bound, 

And  Brotherly  Love  be  the  centre. 

— ♦ — 

THE  BONNIE  LASS  O’  BALLOCHMYLE. 

WAS  even  —  the  dewy  fields  were  green, 
On  every  blade  the  pearls  hang ! 

The  Zephyr  wantoned  round  the  bean, 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang  ; 

In  every  glen  the  mavis  sang, 

All  nature  listening  seemed  the  while, 

Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rang, 

Amang  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

With  careless  step  I  onward  strayed, 

My  heart  rejoiced  in  Nature’s  joy, 

When,  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 

A  maiden  fair  I  chanced  to  spy. 
tier  look  was  like  the  morning’s  eye, 

Her  air  like  Nature’s  vernal  smile, 

Perfection  whispered  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle  !  1 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  Autumn  mild, 

e  > 

i  Variation  — 

The  lily’s  hue  and  rose’s  dye 
Bespoke  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

VOL.  I.  18 


274 


TO  MR.  KENNEDY. 


When  roving  through  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wandering  in  the  lonely  wild  : 

But  woman,  Nature’s  darling  child  ! 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile  ; 
Even  there  her  other  works  are  foiled 
By  the  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Oh,  had  she  been  a  country  maid, 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 

Though  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 
That  ever  rose  on  Scotland’s  plain, 
Through  weary  winter’s  wind  and  rain, 
With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil, 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 
The  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slippery  steep, 
Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine  ; 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 
Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine  ; 
Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil, 

And  every  day  has  joys  divine 

With  the  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle 


TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

T^AREWELL,  dear  friend!  may  guid-luck  hit 
you,  _ 

And  ’mang  her  favourites  admit  you. 


THE  FAREWELL.  275 

If  e’er  Detraction  shore  to  smit  you, 

May  nane  believe  him, 

And  ony  deil  that  thinks  to  get  you, 

Good  L — ,  deceive  him. 

— ♦ — 

THE  FAREWELL. 

**  The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer? 

Or  what  does  he  regard  his  single  woes? 

But  when,  alas!  he  multiplies  himself, 

To  dearer  selves,  to  the  loved  tender  fair. 

To  those  whose  bliss,  whose  being  hangs  upon  him, 

To  helpless  children  !  —  then,  oh  then  !  he  feels 
The  point  of  misery  festering  in  his  heart, 

And  weakly  weeps  his  fortune  like  a  coward. 

Such,  such  am  I !  undone  !  ” 

Thomson’s  Edward  and  Eleanora 

Tj^  ARE  WELL,  Old  Scotia’s  bleak  domains, 
Far  dearer  than  the  torrid  plains 
Where  rich  ananas  blow  ! 

Farewell,  a  mother’s  blessing  dear ! 

A  brother’s  sigh  !  a  sister’s  tear  ! 

My  Jean’s  heart-rending  throe  ! 

Farewell,  my  Bess!  though  thou ’rt  bereft 
Of  my  parental  care, 

A  faithful  brother  I  have  left, 

My  part  in  him  thou  ’It  share  ! 

Adieu  too,  to  you  too, 

My  Smith,  my  bosom  frien’ ; 

When  kindly  you  mind  me, 

Oh  then  befriend  my  Jean  ! 

What  bursting  anguish  tears  my  heart  ! 

From  thee,  my  Jeanie,  must  I  part? 


276  LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  BANK-NOTE. 


Thou,  weeping,  answ’rest  “No  !  ” 

Alas  !  misfortune  stares  my  face, 

And  points  to  ruin  and  disgrace  ; 

I  for  thy  sake  must  go ! 

Thee,  Hamilton,  and  Aiken  dear, 

A  grateful,  warm  adieu  ! 

I,  with  a  much-indebted  tear, 

Shall  still  remember  you  ! 

All-hail  then,  the  gale  then, 

Wafts  me  from  thee,  dear  shore  ! 

It  rustles,  and  whistles  — 

I  ’ll  never  see  thee  more  ! 

« 

— ♦ — 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  BANK-NOTE.1 

"V\/' AE  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursed  leaf, 
Fell  source  o’  a’  my  wo  and  grief : 

For  lack  o’  thee  I’ve  lost  my  lass, 

For  lack  o’  thee  I  scrimp  my  glass  ; 

I  see  the  children  of  affliction 
Unaided,  through  thy  cursed  restriction. 

I ’ve  seen  the  oppressor’s  cruel  smile 
Amid  his  hapless  victim’s  spoil, 

And,  for  thy  potence,  vainly  wished 
To  crush  the  villain  in  the  dust. 

For  lack  o’  thee  I  leave  this  much-loved  shore, 
Never  perhaps  to  greet  old  Scotland  more. 

R.  R.  —  Kvle. 

1  “  The  above  verses,  in  the  handwriting  of  Burns,  are  copied 
from  a  bank-note,  in  the  possession  of  Mr  James  F.  Gracie  of 
Dumfries.  The  note  is  of  the  Bank  of  Scotland,  and  is  dated  so 
far  back  as  1st  March,  1780.’"  —  Motherwell. 


VERSES. 


Til 


WRITTEN 

ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A  COPY  OF  THE  POEMS  PRE¬ 
SENTED  TO  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART,  THEN  MARRIED. 

/^ANCE  fondly  loved,  and  still  remembered  dear, 
^  Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows  ! 
Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm,  sincere  — 
Friendship!  ’t is  all  cold  duty  now  allows. 

And  when  you  read  the  simple  artless  rhymes, 
One  friendly  sigh  for  him — he  asks  no  more. 
Who  distant  bums  in  flaming  torrid  climes, 

Or  haply  lies  beneath  the  Atlantic’s  roar. 


VERSES  WRITTEN  UNDER  VIOLENT  GRIEF 

A  CCEPT  the  gift  a  friend  sincere 
Wad  on  thy  worth  be  pressin’ ; 
Remembrance  oft  may  start  a  tear, 

But  oh  !  that  tenderness  forbear, 

Though ’t  wad  my  sorrows  lessen. 

My  morning  raise  sae  clear  and  fair, 

I  thought  sair  storms  wad  never 
Bedew  the  scene ;  but  grief  and  care 
In  wildest  fury  hae  made  bare 
My  peace,  my  hope,  for  ever  ! 


278  THE  CALF. 

You  think  I ’m  glad ;  oh,  I  pay  weel 
For  a’  the  joy  I  borrow, 

In  solitude  —  then,  then  I  feel 

I  canna  to  myseP  conceal 
My  deeply-ranklin’  sorrow. 

Farewell!  within  thy  bosom  free 
A  sigh  may  whiles  awaken  ; 

A  tear  may  wet  thy  laughin’  e’e, 

For  Scotia’s  son  —  ance  gay  like  thee  — 
Now  hopeless,  comfortless,  forsaken  ! 

— ♦ — 

THE  CALF. 

TO  THE  REV.  MR.  JAMES  STEVEN, 

)  'is  Text,  Malachi  iv.  2.  —  “  And  ye  shall  go  forth,  and  grow 
up  as  calves  of  the  stall.” 

T>  IGIIT,  sir !  your  text  I  ’ll  prove  it  true, 
Though  heretics  may  laugh  ; 

For  instance,  there’s  yoursel’  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  calf! 

And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind, 

As  bless  you  wi’  a  kirk, 

I  doubt  na,  sir,  but  then  we  ’ll  find 
Ye  ’re  still  as  great  a  stirk. 

But  if  the  lover’s  raptured  hour 
Shall  ever  be  your  lot, 

Forbid  it,  every  heavenly  power, 

You  e’er  should  be  a  stot ! 


WILLIE  CHALMERS.  279 

Though,  when  some  kind,  connubial  dear, 
Your  but-and-ben  adorns, 

The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 
A  noble  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte, 

Few  men  o’  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 
To  rank  amang  the  nowte. 

And  when  ye  ’re  numbered  wi’  the  dead. 
Below  a  grassy  hillock, 

Wi’  justice  they  may  mark  your  head  — 

“  Here  lies  a  famous  bullock  !  ” 

— ♦ — 

WILLIE  CHALMERS. 

YX7T  braw  new  branks  in  mickle  pride, 

~  *  And  eke  a  braw  new  brechan, 

My  Pegasus  I ’m  got  astride, 

And  up  Parnassus  pechin’ ; 

Whiles  owre  a  bush  wi’  downward  crush, 
The  doited  beastie  stammers ; 

Then  up  he  gets,  and  off  he  sets, 

For  sake  o’  Willie  Chalmers. 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  that  weel-kenned  name 
May  cost  a  pair  o’  blushes  ; 

I  am  nae  stranger  to  your  fame, 

Nor  his  warm  urged  wishes. 

Your  bonny  face  sae  mild  and  sweet, 

Ills  honest  heart  enamours, 


280 


WILLIE  CHALMERS. 


And  faith  ye  ’ll  no  be  lost  a  whit, 

Though  waired  on  Willie  Chalmers. 

Auld  Truth  hersel’  might  swear  ye  ’re  fair, 
And  Honour  safely  back  her, 

And  Modesty  assume  your  air, 

And  ne’er  a  ane  mistak’  her : 

And  sic  twa  love-inspiring  een 
Might  fire  even  holy  palmers  ; 

Nae  wonder,  then,  they’ve  fatal  been 
To  honest  Willie  Chalmers. 

I  doubt  na  fortune  may  you  shore 
Some  mim-mou’d  pouthered  priestie, 

Fu’  lifted  up  wi’  Hebrew  lore, 

And  band  upon  his  breastie : 

But  oh  !  what  signifies  to  you 
His  lexicons  and  grammars  ; 

The  feeling  heart ’s  the  royal  blue, 

And  that ’s  wi’  Willie  Chalmers. 

Some  gapin’  glowrin’  country  laird 
May  warsle  for  your  favour ; 

May  claw  his  lug,  and  straik  his  beard 
And  boast  up  some  palaver. 

My  bonny  maid,  before  ye  wed 
Sic  clumsv-witted  hammers, 

Seek  Heaven  for  help,  and  barefit  skelp 
Awa’  wi’  Willie  Chalmers. 

Forgive  the  Bard  !  my  fond  regard 
For  ane  that  shares  my  bosom, 

Inspires  my  Muse  to  gie ’m  his  dues. 


TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY. 

For  deil  a  hair  I  roose  him. 

May  powers  aboon  unite  you  soon, 

And  fructify  your  amours, 

And  every  year  come  in  mair  dear 
To  you  and  Willie  Chalmers. 

— ♦ — 

TAM  SAMSON’S  ELEGY. 

**  An  honest  man ’s  the  noblest  work  of  God.”  —  Popfc 

O" AS  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  deil  ? 

Or  great  M’Kinlav  thrawn  his  heel  ? 
Or  Robertson  again  grown  weel 

To  preach  and  read  ? 

“  Na,  waur  than  a’ !  ”  cries  ilka  cliiel  — 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

Kilmarnock  lang  may  grunt  and  grane, 

And  sigh,  and  sob,  and  greet  her  lane, 

And  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  and  wean, 
In  mourning  weed ; 

To  Death  she ’s  dearly  paid  the  kane  — 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

The  brethren  o’  the  mystic  level 
May  hing  their  head  in  woefu’  bevel, 

While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 
Like  ony  bead ; 

Death ’s  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  devel  — 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

When  Winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 

And  binds  the  mire  like  a  rock  ; 


2d; 


282  TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY. 

When  to  the  loch  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi’  gleesome  speed, 

Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ?  — 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

He  was  the  king  o’  a’  the  core, 

To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore, 

Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 
In  time  o’  need  ; 

But  now  he  lags  on  Death’s  ho-r-score  — 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 

And  trouts  be-dropped  wi’  crimson  hail, 
And  eels  weel  kenned  for  souple  tail, 

And  geds  for  greed, 

Since  dark  in  Death’s  fish-creel  we  wail 
Tam  Samson  dead ! 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks  a’ ; 

Ye  cootie  moorcocks  crously  craw  ; 

Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu’  braw, 
Withouten  dread ; 

Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa’  — 

Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

That  woefu’  morn  be  ever  mourned 
Saw  him  in  shootin’  graith  adorned, 

While  pointers  round  impatient  burned, 
Frae  couples  freed  ; 

But,  och  !  he  gaed,  and  ne’er  returned !  — 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 


TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY .  283 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters  ; 

In  vain  the  gout  his  ankles  fetters  ; 

In  vain  the  burns  cam’  down  like  waters 
An  acre  braid  ! 

Now  every  auld  wife,  greetin’,  clatters 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

Owre  many  a  weary  hag  he  limpit, 

And  aye  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit, 

Till  coward  Death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi’  deadly  feide  ; 

Now  he  proclaims,  wi’  tout  o’  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dair^er. 

He  reeled  his  wonted  bottle-swagger, 

But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 
Wi’  weel-aimed  heed  ; 

“  L — ,  five  !  ”  he  cried,  and  owre  did  stagger  — 
Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourned  a  brither  ; 

Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoaned  a  father  ; 

Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 

Marks  out  his  head, 

Where  Burns  has  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether, 
Tam  Samson  *s  dead  ! 

There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest ; 

Perhaps  upon  his  mouldering  breast 

Some  spitefu’  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest, 

To  hatch  and  breed  ; 


284  TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY. 

Alas  !  nae  mair  he  ’ll  them  molest !  — 

Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 

And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave, 

Three  volleys  let  his  memory  crave 
O’  pouther  and  lead, 

Till  Echo  answer  frae  her  cave, 

Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

Heaven  rest  his  said,  where’er  he  be  ! 

Is  th’  Avish  o’  monie  mae  than  me  ; 

He  had  twa  fauts,  or  maybe  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 

Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we  : 

Tam  Samson ’s  dead  ! 

EPITAPH. 

Tam  Samson’s  weel-worn  clay  here  lies, 
Ye  canting  zealots  spare  him  ; 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 

Ye  ’ll  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 

PEll  CONTRA. 

Go,  Fame,  and  canter  like  a  fillie 

Through  a’  the  streets  and  neuks  o’  KiLlie  ; 

Tell  every  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin’, 

For  yet,  unskaithed  by  Death’s  gleg  gullie, 
Tam  Samson ’s  leevin’ ! 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  M'  ADAM.  285 


TO  MR.  M’ADAM  OF  CR AIGENGILLAN 

C  IR,  o’er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card, 

^  I  trow  it  made  me  proud  ; 

See  wha  taks  notice  o’  the  Bard  !  ” 

I  lap  and  cried  fu’  loud. 

Now  diel-ma-care  about  their  jaw, 

The  senseless,  gawky  million  : 

I  ’ll  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a’  — 

I ’m  roosed  by  Craigengillan  ! 

’T  was  noble,  sir  ;  ’t  was  like  yoursel’ 

To  grant  your  high  protection  : 

A  great  man’s  smile,  ye  ken  fu’  well, 

Is  aye  a  blest  infection  ;  — 

Though,  by  his  banes  who  in  a  tub 
Matched  Macedonian  Sandy ! 

On  my  ain  legs,  through  dirt  and  dub, 

I  independent  stand  aye. 

And  when  those  legs  to  guid  warm  kail, 
Wi’  welcome  canna  bear  me, 

A  lee  dike-side,  a  sybow-tail, 

And  barley-scone,  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  the  breath 
O’  many  flowery  simmers  ! 

And  bless  your  bonny  lasses  baith  — 

I ’m  tauld  they  ’re  lo’esome  kimmers  ! 


286  VERSES  WRITTEN'  AT  MR.  LAWRIE'S. 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskin’s  laird, 

The  blossom  of  our  gentry, 

And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man’s  beard, 

A  credit  to  his  country ! 

— ♦ — 

I.YING  AT  A  FRIEND’S  HOUSE  ONE  NIGHT,  THE  AUTHOR 
LEFT  THE  FOLLOWING 

VERSES 

IN  THE  ROOM  WHERE  HE  SLEPT. 

/"AH  thou  dread  Power  who  reign ’st  above, 

I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear, 

When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love 
I  make  my  prayer  sincere  ! 

The  hoary  sire  —  the  mortal  stroke, 

Long,  long  be  pleased  to  spare, 

To  bless  his  filial  little  flock, 

And  shew  what  good  men  are. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 

Oh  bless  her  with  a  mother’s  joys, 

But  spare  a  mother’s  tears  ! 

Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth, 

In  manhood’s  dawning  blush  — 

Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

Up  to  a  parent’s  wish  ! 


THE  GLOOMY  NIGHT. 


287 


The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band, 

With  earnest  tears  I  pray, 

Thou  know’st  the  snares  on  every  hand  - 
Guide  thou  their  steps  alway. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast, 
O’er  life’s  rough  ocean  driven, 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost  — 

A  family  in  heaven  ! 1 


♦ 


THE  GLOOMY  NIGHT  IS  GATHERING  FAST 


Tune  —  Roslin  Castle. 


HE  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast, 


A  Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast ; 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 

I  see  it  driving  o’er  the  plain. 

The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 

The  scattered  coveys  meet  secure  ; 

While  here  I  wander,  pressed  with  care, 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

1  Miss  Louisa  Lawrie  possessed  a  scrap  of  verse  in  the  poet's 
handwriting  —  a  mere  trifle,  but  apparently  intended  as  part 
of  a  lyric  description  of  the  manse  festivities.  Some  little  license 
must  be  granted  to  the  poet  with  respect  to  his  lengthening  the 
domestic  dance  so  far  into  the  night. 


The  night  was  still,  and  o’er  the  hill 
The  moon  shone  on  the  castle  wa’; 
The  mavis  sang,  while  dew-drops  hang 
Around  her,  on  the  castle  wa’. 

Sae  merrily  they  danced  the  ring, 

Frae  eenin’  till  the  cock  did  craw ; 
And  aye  the  o'erword  o’  the  spring, 
Was  Irvine's  bairns  are  bonny  a’ 


288 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 


The  Autumn  mourns  her  ripening  corn, 

By  early  Winter’s  ravage  torn  ; 

Across  her  placid,  azure  sky, 

She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly  ; 

Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave  — 

I  think  upon  the  stormy  wave, 

Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare, 

Far  from  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

’T  is  not  the  surging  billow’s  roar, 

’T  is  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore ; 

Though  death  in  every  shape  appear, 

The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear ! 

But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  transpierced  with  many  a  wound 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear, 

To  leave  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

Farewell  old  Coila’s  hills  and  dales, 

Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales  ; 

The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves  ! 

Farewell,  my  friends  !  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those : 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare  ; 
Farewell  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr  ! 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 

INSCRIBED  TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE,  ESQ.,  AYR. 

TTE  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  bough 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR.  289 

Mailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green  thorn- 
bush  ; 

The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  redbreast  shrill, 

Or  deep-toned  plovers,  gray,  wild-whistling  o’er 
the  hill ; 

Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant’s  lowly  shed, 

To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred, 

By  early  poverty  to  hardship  steeled, 

And  trained  to  arms  in  stern  misfortune’s  field  — 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes, 

The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 

Or  labour  hard  the  panegyric  close, 

With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  prose  ? 

No  !  though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings, 

And  throws  his  hand  uncouthlv  o’er  the  strings, 
lie  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  Bard, 

Fame,  honest  Fame,  his  great,  his  dear  reward  ! 
Still,  if  some  patron’s  generous  care  he  trace, 
Skilled  in  the  secret  to  bestow  with  grace, 

When  Ballantyne  befriends  his  humble  name, 

And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  Fame, 

With  heartfelt  throes  his  grateful  bosom  swells, 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 

% 

’T  was  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter  hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap ; 
Potato  bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaitli 
Of  coming  Winter’s  biting,  frosty  breath  ; 

The  bees,  rejoicing  o’er  their  summer  toils, 
Unnumbered  buds’  and  flowers’  delicious  spoils 
Sealed  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen  piles. 
Are  doomed  by  man,  that  tyrant  o’er  the  weak. 
The  death  o’  devils  smoored  wi’  brimstone  reek  : 
VOL.  i.  19 


-J'JU  TT1E  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 

The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  every  side. 

The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide  ; 

The  feathered  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature’s  tie. 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie  ; 

(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds, 

And  execrates  man’s  savage,  ruthless  deeds :) 

Nae  mair  the  flower  in  field  or  meadow  springs ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 
Except,  perhaps,  the  robin’s  whistling  glee, 

Proud  o’  the  height  o’  some  bit  half-lamr  tree : 

The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days, 

Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noontide  blaze, 
A\  hile  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in  the 
rays. 

’T  was  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  Bard, 
Unknown  and  poor,  Simplicity’s  reward, 

Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr, 

Bv  whim  inspired,  or  haply  prest  wi’  care, 

He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route, 

And  down  by  Simpson’s  wheeled  the  left-about  : 
(Whether  impelled  by  all-directing  Fate, 

To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate ; 1 
O »  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 

He  wandered  out  he  knew  not  where  or  why.) 

The  drowsy  Dungeon-clock  had  numbered  two. 
And  Wallace  Tower  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true ; 
I  he  tide-swoln  Firth,  with  sullen  sounding  roar, 

l  In  a  MS.  copy,  here  occur  two  lines  omitted  in  print  r 

“  Or  penitential  pan^s  for  former  sins 
Led  him  to  rove  by  quondam  Merran  Din’a.’* 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR.  21)1 

Through  the  still  night  dashed  hoarse  along  thp 
shore. 

All  else  was  hushed  as  Nature’s  closed  e’e ; 

The  silent  moon  shone  high  o’er  tower  and  tree  ; 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 

Crept,  gently-crusting,  o’er  the  glittering  stream  :  — 
When  lo  !  on  either  hand  the  listening  Bard, 

The  clanging  sugli  of  whistling  wings  is  heard ; 
Two  dusky  forms  dart  through  the  midnight  air, 
Swift  as  the  gos  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare. 

Ane  on  the  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  uprears, 

The  ither  flutters  o’er  the  rising  piers  : 

Our  warlock  Rhymer  instantly  descried 

The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  preside. 

(That  Bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 

And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp’ritual  folk  ; 

Fays,  Spunkies,  Kelpies,  a’,  they  can  explain  them, 
And  even  the  very  deils  they  braAvly  ken  them.) 
Auld  Brig  appeared  of  ancient  Pictish  race, 

The  very  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face  : 

He  seemed  as  he  wi’  Time  had  warstl’d  lang, 

Yet,  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 

New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat 
That  he  at  Lon’on,  frae  ane  Adams,  got ; 

In ’s  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth ’s  a  bead, 
Wi’  virls  and  whirlvgigums  at  the  head. 

The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxious  search. 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  every  arch  ; 

It  chanced  his  new-come  neebor,  took  his  e’e, 

And  e’en  a  vexed  and  angry  heart  had  he  ! 

Wi’  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien, 

He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guid-e’en  :  — 


292  THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 

AULD  BRIG. 

I  doubt  na,  frien’,  ye  ’ll  think  ye  ’re  nae  sheep* 
shank, 

Anee  ye  were  streekit  o’er  frae  bank  to  bank, 

But  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  aukl  as  me  — 

Though,  faith,  that  day  I  doubt  ye  ’ll  never  see  — 
There  ’ll  be,  if  that  date  come,  I  ’ll  wad  a  boddle, 
Some  fewer  whigmaleeries  in  your  noddle. 

v 

NEW  BRIG. 

Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  shew  your  little  mense, 
Just  much  about  it  wi’  your  scanty  sense. 

Will  your  poor,  narrow  footpath  of  a  street  — 
Whare  twa  wheel -barrows  tremble  when  they 
meet  — 

Your  ruined,  formless  bulk  o’  stane  and  lime, 
Compare  wi’  bonny  brigs  o’  modern  time  ? 

There ’s  men  o’  taste  w’ould  tak  the  Ducat  Stream, 
Though  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  and  swim, 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi’  the  view 
Of  sic  an  ugly  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULD  BRIG. 

Conceited  gowk,  puffed  up  wi’  windy  pride  ! 
This  monie  a  year  I ’ve  stood  the  flood  and  tide  ; 
And  though  wi’  crazy  eild  I ’m  sair  forfairn, 

1  ’ll  be  a  Brig  when  ye  ’re  a  shapeless  cairn  ! 

As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 

But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  ye  better. 

When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a’-day  rains, 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR.  293 

Wi’  deepening  deluges  o’erflow  the  plains ; 

When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling 
Coil, 

Or  stately  Lugar’s  mossy  fountains  boil, 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 
Or  haunted  Garpal  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Aroused  by  blustering  winds  and  spotting  thowes, 
In  monie  a  torrent  down  his  snaw-broo  rowes  ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps  dams,  and  mills,  and  brigs,  a’  to  the  gate  ; 
And  from  Glenbuck  down  to  the  Ratton-key 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthened  tumbling  sea  — 
Then  down  ye  ’ll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 

And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  skies  . 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost, 

That  Architecture’s  noble  art  is  lost ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Fine  Architecture,  trowth,  I  needs  must  say  t 
o’ ’t! 

The  L —  be  thankit  that  we ’ve  tint  the  gate  o”t ! 
Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 

Hanging  with  threatening  jut,  like  precipices; 
O’erarching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves, 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves  : 

Windows,  and  doors  in  nameless  sculpture  drest, 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 

Forms  like  some  bedlam  statuary’s  dream, 

The  crazed  creations  of  misguided  whim ; 

Forms  might  be  worshipped  on  the  bended  knee, 
And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  free, 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or  sea. 


29 i  THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 

Mansions  that  would  disgrace  the  building  taste 
Of  any  mason  reptile,  bird  or  beast ; 

Fit  only  for  a  doited  monkish  race, 

Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace ; 

Or  cuifs  of  latter  times,  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  devotion  ; 
Fancies  tliat  our  good  Brugh  denies  protection  ! 
And  soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with  resurrec¬ 
tion  ! 

AULD  BRIG. 

Oh  ye,  my  dear  remembered  ancient  yealings, 
Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feelings  ! 
Ye  worthy  Proveses,  and  monie  a  Bailie, 

Wha  in  the  paths  o’  righteousness  did  toil  aye ; 

Ye  dainty  Deacons  and  ye  douce  Conveeners, 

To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-cleaners  ; 

Ye  godly  Councils  wha  hae  blest  this  town  ; 

Ye  godly  brethren  o’  the  sacred  gown, 

Wha  meekly  ga’e  your  hurdies  to  the  smiters  ; 

And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly  writ¬ 
ers  ; 

A’  ye  douce  folk  I ’ve  borne  aboon  the  broo, 

Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do  ! 

How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep  vexation, 
To  see  each  melancholy  alteration  ; 

And  agonising,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base  degenerate  race  ! 

Nae  langer  reverend  men,  their  country’s  glory, 

In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a  plain  braid  story  ! 
Xae  langer  thrifty  citizens  and  douce, 

Meet  owre  a  pint,  or  in  the  council-house  ; 


TI1E  BRIGS  OF  AYR.  295 

But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  gentry, 

The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country ; 

Men  three  parts  made  by  tailors  and  by  barbers, 

Wha  waste  your  weel-hained  gear  on  d - new 

briers  and  harbours  ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Now  baud  you  there,  for  faith  you  *ve  said 
enough, 

And  muckle  mair  than  ye  can  mak  to  through.1 
As  for  your  Priesthood  I  shall  say  but  little, 
Corbies  and  Clergy  are  a  shot  right  kittle  : 

But,  under  favour  o’  your  langer  beard, 

Abuse  o’  magistrates  might  weel  be  spared. 

To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warld  squad, 

I  must  needs  say  comparisons  are  odd. 

In  Ayr,  wair-wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a  handle 
To  mouth  u  a  citizen,”  a  term  o’  scandal ; 

Nae  mair  the  Council  waddles  down  the  street, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit.2 

Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin’  owre  hops  and  raisins, 

Or  gathered  liberal  views  in  bonds  and  seisins  ; 

If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a  random  tramp, 

Had  shored  them  with  a  glimmer  of  his  lamp, 

I 

1  Inserted  in  MS.  copy : 

“That ’s  aye  a  string  auld  doited  Graybeards  harp  on, 

A  topic  for  their  peevishness  to  carp  on.” 

2  Variation  iu  MS. : 

“  Nae  mair  down  street  the  Council  quorum  waddles, 

With  wigs  like  mainsails  on  their  logger  noddles  ; 

No  dilference  but  bulkiest  or  tallest, 

With  comfortable  dulness  in  for  ballast: 

Nor  shoals  nor  currents  need  a  pilot’s  caution, 

For  regularly  slow,  they  only  witness  motion.” 


296  THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 

And  would  to  Common-sense  for  once  betrayed 
them, 

Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid  them. 


W  hat  further  clish-ma-claver  might  been  said, 
What  bloody  wars,  if  sprites  had  blood  to  shed, 
No  man  can  tell ;  but  all  before  their  sight, 

A  fairy  train  appeared  in  order  bright ; 

Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danced  ; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanced  ; 
They  footed  o’er  the  watery  glass  so  neat, 

The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet ; 
While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 

And  soul-ennobling  bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 

Oh  had  M’Lachlan,  thairm-inspiring  sage, 

Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage, 
When  through  his  dear  strathspeys  they  bore  with 
Highland  rage  ; 

Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia’s  melting  airs, 

The  lover’s  raptured  joys  or  bleeding  cares  ; 

How  would  his  Highland  lug  been  nobler  fired, 
And  even  his  matchless  hand  with  finer  touch 
inspired  ! 

No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  appeared, 

But  all  the  soul  of  Music’s  self  was  heard  ; 
Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part, 

While  simple  melody  poured  moving  on  the  heart. 

The  Genius  of  the  stream  in  front  appears, 

A  venerable  chief  advanced  in  years  ; 

His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crowned, 

His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  bound. 


LINES  ON  MEETING  LORD  DAER.  207 


Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 

Sweet  Female  Beauty  hand  in  hand  with  Spring ; 
Then,  crowned  with  flowery  hay,  came  Rural  Joy, 
And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye  ; 
All-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn, 

Led  yellow  Autumn,  wreathed  with  nodding  corn  ; 
Then  Winter’s  time-bleached  locks  did  hoary  show, 
By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow  ; 

Next  followed  Courage,  with  his  martial  stride, 
From  where  the  Feal  wild  woody  coverts  hide  : 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 

A  female  form,  came  from  the  towers  of  Stair  ; 
Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-loved  abode  : 

Last,  white-robed  Peace,  crowned  with  a  hazel 
wreath, 

To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death  ; 

At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their  kind- 
lino;  wrath. 

O 


- 9 - 

LINES  ON  MEETING  WITH  BASIL,  LORD  DAER. 

npHIS  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 

I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 

A  ne’er-to-be-forgotten  day, 

Sae  far  I  sprachled  up  the  brae, 

I  dinner’d  wi’  a  Lord. 

I ’ve  been  at  drucken  writers’  feasts, 

Nay,  been  bitch-fou  ’mang  godly  priests, 


208  LINES  ON  MEETING  LORD  DAER. 

Wi’  reverence  be  it  spoken  ; 

I ’ve  even  joined  the  honoured  jorum, 
When  mighty  squi  reships  of  the  quorum 
Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi’  a  Lord  !  —  stand  out  my  shin, 

A  Lord  —  a  Peer  —  an  Earl’s  son  ! 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ! 

And  sic  a  Lord  !  —  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
Our  Peerage  he  o’erlooks  them  a’, 

As  I  look  o’er  my  sonnet. 

But  oh  for  Hogarth’s  magic  power  ! 

To  shew  Sir  Bardie’s  willyart  glower, 

And  how  he  stared  and  stammer’d, 
When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi’  branks, 

And  stumpin’  on  his  ploughman  shanks, 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer’d. 

I  sidling  sheltered  in  a  nook, 

And  at  his  Lordship  steal’t  a  look, 

Like  some  portentous  omen  ; 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee, 

And  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I  marked  nought  uncommon. 

I  watched  the  symptoms  o’  the  great, 

The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming  ; 

The  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he, 

Nor  sauce,  nor  state,  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 


EPISTLE  TO  MAJOR  LOGAN. 


299 


Then  from  his  lordship  I  shall  learn 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 
One  rank  as  weel ’s  anither  : 
Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  with  noble  youthful  Daer, 
For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 


♦ 


EPISTLE  TO  MAJOR  LOGAN. 
AIL,  thairm-inspirin’,  rattlin’  Willie  ! 


Though  Fortune’s  road  be  rough  and  hilly 
To  every  fiddling,  rhyming  billie, 


We  never  heed, 


But  take  it  like  the  unbacked  filly, 


Proud  o’  her  speed. 


When  idly  goavan  whyles  we  saunter, 

Yirr,  fancy  barks,  awa’  we  canter 
Uphill,  down  brae,  till  some  mischanter, 
Some  black  bog-hole, 

Arrests  us,  then  the  scaith  and  banter 
We  ’re  forced  to  thole. 

Hale  be  your  heart !  —  hale  be  your  fiddle  ! 
Lang  may  your  elbock  jink  and  diddle, 

To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 
O’  this  wild  warl’, 

Until  you  on  a  erummock  driddle 
A  gray-haired  carle. 

Come  wealth,  come  poortith,  late  or  soon, 
Heaven  send  your  heart-strings  aye  in  tune, 


300  EPISTLE  TO  MAJOR  LOG  Ay. 

And  screw  your  temper-pins  aboon, 

A  fifth  or  mair, 

The  melancholious,  lazy  croon, 

O’  cankrie  care. 

May  still  your  life  from  day  to  day 
Nae  “  lente  largo  ”  in  the  play, 

But  “  allegretto  forte  ”  gay 

Harmonious  flow, 

A  sweeping,  kindling,  bauld  Strathspey 
Encore !  Bravo  ! 

A  blessing  on  the  cheery  gang 
Wha  dearly  like  a  jig  or  sang, 

And  never  think  o’  riMit  and  wranff 
By  square  and  rule, 

But  as  the  clegs  o’  feeling  stang, 

Are  wise  or  fool. 

My  hand-waled  curse  keep  hard  in  chase 
The  harpy,  hoodock,  purse-proud  race, 
Wha  count  on  poortith  as  disgrace  ! 

Their  tuneless  hearts  — 

May  fireside  discords  jar  a  base 
To  a’  their  parts  ! 

But  come,  your  hand,  my  careless  brither, 
I’  th’  ither  waiT,  if  there ’s  anither 
And  that  there  is  I  ’ve  little  s wither 
About  the  matter  — 

Wo  cheek  for  chow  shall  jog  thegither ; 

I  ’se  ne’er  bid  better. 


EPISTLE  TO  MAJOR  LOGAN.  301 

We  Ve  faults  and  failings  —  granted  clearly, 

We  ’re  frail  backsliding  mortals  merely, 

Eve’s  bonny  squad  priests  wyte  them  sheerly 
For  our  grand  fa’ ; 

But  still,  but  still  —  I  like  them  dearlv  — 

God  bless  them  a’ ! 

Ochon  for  poor  Castalian  drinkers, 

When  they  fa’  foul  o’  earthly  jinkers, 

The  witching  cursed  delicious  blinkers 
Hae  put  me  byte, 

And  gart  me  weet  my  waukrife  winkers 
Wi’  girnin’  spite. 

But  by  yon  moon  !  —  and  that ’s  high  swearin’ — 
And  every  star  within  my  bearin’ ! 

And  by  her  een  wha  was  a  dear  ane  ! 

I  ’ll  ne’er  forget ; 

I  hope  to  gie  the  jads  a  clearin’ 

In  fair-play  yet. 

My  loss  I  mourn,  but  not  repent  it, 

I  ’ll  seek  my  pursie  whare  I  tint  it ; 

Ance  to  the  Indies  I  were  wonted, 

Some  cantrip  hour, 

By  some  sweet  elf  I  ’ll  yet  be  dinted, 

Then,  vive  V amour  ! 

Faites  mes  baise-mains  respectueuses , 

To  sentimental  sister  Susie, 

And  honest  Lucky  ;  no  to  roose  you, 

Ye  may  be  proud, 


302  ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 

That  sic  a  couple  Fate  allows  ye 
To  grace  your  blood. 

Nae  mair  at  present  can  I  measure, 

And  trowth,  my  rhymin’  ware ’s  nae  treasure ; 
But  when  in  Ayr,  some  half-hour’s  leisure, 

Be ’t  light,  be ’t  dark, 

Sir  Bard  will  do  himself  the  pleasure 
To  call  at  Park. 


AN  EXPOSTULATION  ON  A  REBUKE  ADMIN¬ 
ISTERED  BY  MRS.  LAWRIE. 

T3  USTICITY’S  ungainly  form 
May  cloud  the  highest  mind  ; 

But  when  the  heart  is  nobly  warm, 

The  good  excuse  will  find. 

Propriety’s  cold  cautious  rules  , 

Warm  Fervour  may  o’erlook  ; 

But  spare  poor  Sensibility 
The  ungentle,  harsh  rebuke. 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 

T^DINA  !  Scotia’s  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch’s  feet 
Sat  Legislation’s  sovereign  powers  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scattered  flowers, 
As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  strayed, 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH.  303 

And  sin^ino;,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honoured  shade. 

Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide, 

As  busy  Trade  his  labour  plies  ; 

There  Architecture’s  noble  pride 
Bids  elegance  and  splendour  rise  ; 

Here  Justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  ro:l ; 

There  Learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  Science  in  her  coy  abode. 

Thy  sons,  Edina  !  social,  kind, 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 

Their  views  enlarged,  their  liberal  mind, 
Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale ; 

Attentive  still  to  Sorrow’s  wail, 

Or  modest  Merit’s  silent  claim ; 

And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name  ! 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn,  % 
Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 

Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptured  thrill  of  joy  ! 

Fair  Burnet  strikes  th’  adoring  eye, 

Heaven’s  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine  ; 

I  see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high, 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine ! 

There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 

Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar : 

Like  some  bold  veteran,  gray  in  arms, 


804  ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 

And  marked  with  many  a  seamy  gear. 
The  ponderous  wall  and  massy  bar, 
Grim-rising  o’er  the  rugged  rock, 

Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war, 

O  7 

And  oft  repelled  the  invader’s  shock. 

With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tears, 
I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 

Where  Scotia’s  kings  of  other  years, 

Famed  heroes  !  had  their  royal  home. 
Alas,  how  changed  the  times  to  come 
Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust  ! 

Their  hapless  race  wild  wandering  roam, 
Though  rigid  law  cries  out,  ’T  was  just ! 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 
Through  hostile  ranks  and  ruined  gaps 
Old  Scotia’s  bloody  lion  bore. 

Even  I  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Ilaply,  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 
f  And  faced  grim  danger’s  loudest  roar, 

Bold-following  where  your  fathers  led  ! 

Edina  !  Scotia’s  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 

Where  once  beneath  a  monarch’s  feet 
Sat  Legislation’s  sovereign  powers  ! 

From  marking  wildly-scattered  flowers, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  strayed, 

And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honoured  shade. 


CHE  VALIER  ’ S  B1R  Till) A  Y.  305 


ODE  ON  THE  CHEVALIER’S  BIRTHDAY. 

Jj^ALSE  flatterer,  Hope,  away ! 

Nor  think  to  lure  us  as  in  days  of  yore  ; 
We  solemnise  this  sorrowing  natal-day 
To  prove  our  loyal  truth ;  we  can  no  more ; 

And  owning  Heaven’s  mysterious  sway, 
Submissive  low  adore. 

Ye  honoured  mighty  dead  ! 

Who  nobly  perished  in  the  glorious  cause, 

Your  king,  your  country,  and  her  laws ! 

From  great  Dundee  who  smiling  victory  led, 

And  fell  a  martvr  in  her  arms 

•/ 

(What  breast  of  northern  ice  but  warms  ?) 

To  bold  Balmerino’s  undying  name, 

Whose  soul  of  fire,  lighted  at  heaven’s  high 
flame, 

Deserves  the  proudest  wreath  departed  heroes  claim. 

Nor  unavenged  your  fate  shall  be, 

It  only  lags  the  fatal  hour  ; 

Your  blood  shall  with  incessant  cry 
Awake  at  last  th’  unsparing  power  ; 

As  from  the  cliff,  with  thundering  course, 

The  snowy  ruin  smokes  along, 

With  doubling  speed  and  gathering  force, 

Till  deep  it  crashing  whelms  the  cottage  in  the 
vale !  . 

So  vengeance  . 

\  ol.  i.  20 


306  BONNIE  DO  ON. 

TO  MISS  LOGAN  WITH  BEATTIE’S  TOEMS: 

AS  A  NEW-YKAlt’S  GIFT,  JANUARY  1,  1787. 

A  GAIN  tlie  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driven, 

And  you,  though  scarce  in  maiden  prime, 
Are  so  much  nearer  heaven. 

No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 
The  infant  year  to  hail ; 

I  send  you  more  than  India  boasts 
In  Edwin’s  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 
Is  charged,  perhaps,  too  true ; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 
An  Edwin  still  to  you  ! 

— « — 

BONNIE  D00N. 

X7"E  flowery  banks  o’  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair  ! 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu’  o’  care  ! 

Thou ’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 
That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 

Thou  minds  me  o’  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 


GU DEWIFE  OF  WAUCIIOPE-HOUSE.  307 


Thou  ’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wistna  o’  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  love, 

And  sae  did  I  o’  mine. 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I  pu’d  a  rose 
Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree, 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 


TIIE  GUDEWIFE  OF  WAUCHOPE-HOUSE  TO 

BURNS. 

IX/TY  cantie,  witty,  rhyming  ploughman. 

I  hadlins  doubt  it  is  na  true,  man, 

That  ye  between  the  stilts  was  bred, 

Wi’  ploughmen  schooled,  wi’  ploughmen  fed  ; 

I  doubt  it  sair,  ye ’ve  drawn  your  knowledge 
Either  frae  grammar-school  or  college. 

Guid  troth,  your  saul  and  body  baith 
War  better  fed,  I ’d  gie  my  aith, 

Than  theirs  who  sup  sour  milk  and  parritch, 
And  bummil  tlirough  the  single  Carritch. 
Whaever  heard  the  ploughman  sj)eak, 

Could  tell  gif  Homer  was  a  Greek  ? 

He’d  flee  as  soon  upon  a  cudgel, 


308  G  UDE  WIFE  OF  WAU  CHOP  E-HOUSE. 

As  get  a  single  line  of  Virgil. 

And  then  sae  slee  ye  crack  your  jokes 
O’  Willie  Pitt  and  Charlie  Fox, 

Our  o-reat  men  a’  sae  weel  descrive, 

And  how  to  gar  the  nation  thrive, 

Ane  maist  wad  swear  ye  dwalt  amang  them, 
And  as  ye  saw  them,  sae  ye  sang  them. 

But  be  ye  ploughman,  be  ye  peer, 

Ye  are  a  funny  blade,  I  swear; 

And  though  the  cauld  I  ill  can  bide, 

Yet  twenty  miles  and  mair  I ’d  ride 
O’er  moss  and  moor,  and  never  grumble, 
Though  my  auld  yad  should  gie  a  stumble, 
To  crack  a  winter  night  wi’  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sangs  and  sonnets  slee. 

Oh  gif  I  kenn’d  but  whare  ye  baide, 

I ’d  send  to  you  a  marled  plaid  ; 

’T  wad  haud  your  shouthers  warm  and  braw, 
And  douce  at  kirk  or  market  shaw  ; 

Fra’  south  as  weel  as  north,  my  lad, 

A’  honest  Scotsmen  lo’e  the  maud. 


— ♦ — 

BURNS  TO  THE  GUDEWIFE  OF  WAUCHOPE- 

HOUSE. 

T  MIND  it  weel  in  early  date, 

When  I  was  beardless,  young,  and  blate, 
And  first  could  thrash  the  barn, 

Or  haud  a  yokin’  at  the  pleugh, 

And  though  forfoughten  sair  eneugh, 


G UDE WIFE  OF  WAUCHOPE-HOUSE .  309 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn  : 

When  first  among  the  yellow  corn 
A  man  I  reckoned  was, 

And  wi’  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 

Still  shearing,  and  clearing, 

The  tither  stooked  raw, 

Wi’  claivers,  and  haivers, 

Wearing  the  day  awa’. 

E’en  then,  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power  — 

A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast  — 

That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland’s  sake, 

Some  usefu’  plan  or  beuk  could  make, 

Or  sins  a  sang  at  least. 

The  rough  burr-thissle,  spreading  wide 
Amans  the  bearded  bear, 

I  turned  the  weeder-elips  aside, 

And  spared  the  symbol  dear  ! 

No  nation,  no  station, 

My  envy  e’er  could  raise, 

A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 

I  knew  nae  higher  praise. 

But  still  the  elements  o’  sang. 

In  formless  jumble,  right  and  wrang, 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain ; 

Till  on  that  har’st  I  said  before, 

My  partner  in  the  merry  core, 

She  roused  the  forming  strain. 

I  see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean, 

That  lighted  up  my  jingle, 


i>10  GUDEWIFE  OF  WAUCHOPE-HOUSE. 

Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  een 
That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle  : 

*  I  fired,  inspired, 

At  every  kindling  keek, 

But  bashing,  and  dashing, 

I  feared  aye  to  speak. 

Health  to  the  sex,  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi*  merry  dance  in  winter  days, 

And  we  to  share  in  common  : 

The  gust  o’  joy,  the  balm  of  wo, 

The  saul  o’  life,  the  heaven  below, 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 

Ye  surly  sumplis,  who  hate  the  name, 

Be  mindfu’  o’  your  mither ; 

She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 
That  ye  ’re  connected  with  her. 

Ye’re  wae  men,  ye’re  nae  men 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears ; 

To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye, 

Ilk  honest  birkie  swears. 

For  you,  no  bred  to  barn  and  byre, 

A\  ha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre, 
Thanks  to  you  for  your  line : 

The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare, 

By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware ; 

’T  wad  please  me  to  the  Nine. 

I ’d  be  mair  vauntie  o’  my  hap, 

Douce  hingin’  owre  my  curple, 

Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap, 

Or  proud  imperial  purple. 


RATTLIN' ,  R  OAR  IN  WILLIE.  311 

Fareweel  then,  lang  heal  then, 

And  plenty  be  your  fa’, 

May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne’er  at  your  hallan  ca’ ! 


WILLIAM  SMELLIE. 


- 1 

0  Croehallan  came, 

The  old  cocked-hat,  the  gray  surtout,  the  same  , 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might; 

’T  was  four  long  nights  and  days  till  shaving-night ; 
His  uncombed  grizzly  locks,  wild  staring,  thatched 
A  head  for  thought  profound  and  clear  unmatched  ; 
Yet  though  his  caustic  wit  was  biting  rude, 

His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 

*  — • — 


RATTLIN’,  ROARIN’  WILLIE 
S  I  cam  by  Croehallan, 


I  cannilie  keekit  ben  ; 
Rattlin’,  roarin’  Willie 

AVras  sitting  at  yon  boord-en’ ; 
Sitting  at  yon  boord-en’, 

And  amang  gude  companie  ; 
Rattlin’,  roarin’  Willie, 

Ye  ’re  welcome  hame  to  me  ! 


312  ON  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  GRAVE  OF  FERGUSSON 

HERE  LIES  ROBERT  FERGUSSON,  POET. 

BORN,  SEPTEMBER  5TIT,  1751;  PIED,  16TH  OCTOBER,  1774. 

O  sculptured  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 

'  “  No  storied  urn,  nor  animated  bust ;  ” 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia’s  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o’er  her  Poet’s  dust. 


VERSES  UNDER  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  FERGUS¬ 
SON. 

COURSE  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be  pleased, 
And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the  pleasure  ! 
Oh  thou,  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune, 

Bv  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  Muses, 

With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 

Why  is  the  bard  unpitied  by  the  world, 

Yet  has  so  keen  a  relish  of  its  pleasures  ? 


VERSES  INTENDED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BELOW 
A  NOBLE  EARL’S  PICTURE.  [THE  EARL  OF 
GLENCAIRN.] 

■\\THOSE  is  that  noble,  dauntless  brow  ? 

'  ’  And  whose  that  eye  of  fire  ? 


THE  AMERICAN  WAR.  313 

And  whose  that  generous  princely  mien 
Even  rooted  foes  admire  ? 

Stranger,  to  justly  shew  that  brow, 

And  mark  that  eye  of  fire, 

Would  take  His  hand,  whose  vernal  tints 
His  other  works  admire. 

Bright  as  a  cloudless  summer  sun, 

With  stately  port  he  moves  ; 

His  guardian  seraph  eyes  with  awe 
The  noble  ward  he  loves. 

Amonir  the  illustrious  Scottish  sons 

o 

That  chief  thou  may’st  discern  ; 

Mark  Scotia’s  fond  returning  eye, 

It  dwells  upon  Glencairn. 


— • — - 

THE  AMERICAN  WAR. 

A  FRAGMENT 

VXTHEN  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood, 
*  *  And  did  our  helm  thraw,  man, 

Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a  plea, 

Within  America,  man  : 

Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin’-pat, 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man  ; 

And  did  nae  less,  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 


314 


THE  AMERICAN  WAR. 

Then  through  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 
I  wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man  ; 

Down  Lowrie’s  Burn  he  took  a  turn, 

And  Carleton  did  ca’,  man  ; 

But  yet,  what-reck,  he,  at  Quebec, 
Montgomery-like  did  fa’,  man, 

Wi’  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 

Amang  his  en’mies  a’,  man. 

Poor  Tammy  Gage,  within  a  cage, 

W as  kept  at  Boston  ha’,  man ; 

Till  Willie  Howe  took  o’er  the  knowe 
For  Philadelphia,  man. 

Wi’  sword  and  gun  he  thought  a  sin 
Guid  Christian  blood  to  draw,  man  : 

But  at  New  York,  wi’  knife  and  fork, 
Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma’,  man. 

Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  and  whip, 

Till  Fraser  brave  did  fa’,  man  ; 

Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day, 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 

Cornwallis  fought  as  lang ’s  he  dought. 

And  did  the  buckskins  claw,  man ; 

But  Clinton’s  glaive  frae  rust  to  save, 
lie  hung  it  to  the  wa’,  man. 

Then  Montague,  and  Guildford  too, 

Began  to  fear  a  fa’,  man  ; 

And  Sackville  dour,  wha  stood  the  stoure, 
The  German  Chief  to  tliraw,  man  : 

For  Paddy  Burke,  like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a’,  man  ; 


* 


THE  AMERICAN  WAR.  315 

And  Charlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box, 

And  lowsed  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 

Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game, 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca’,  man  ; 

When  Shelburne  meek  held  up  his  cheek, 
Conform  to  gospel  law,  man. 

Saint  Stephen’s  boys,  wi’  jarring  noise, 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man, 

For  North  and  Fox  united  stocks, 

And  bore  him  to  the  wa’,  man. 

Then  clubs  and  hearts  were  Charlie’s  cartes, 
He  swept  the  stakes  awa’,  man, 

Till  the  diamond’s  ace,  of  Indian  race, 

Led  him  a  sair  faux  pas ,  man. 

T1  ie  Saxon  lads,  wi’  loud  placads, 

On  Chatham’s  boy  did  ca’,  man  ; 

And  Scotland  drew  her  pipe,  and  blew, 

“  Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a’,  man  !  ” 

Behind  the  throne  then  Grenville ’s  o-one, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man ; 

While  slee  Dundas  aroused  the  class, 
Be-north  the  Roman  Wa’,  man  : 

And  Chatham’s  wraith,  in  heavenly  graith, 
(Inspired  bardies  saw,  man,) 

Wi’  kindling  eyes  cried :  “  Willie,  rise  ! 
Would  I  hae  feared  them  a’,  man  ?  ” 

But,  word  and  blow,  North,  Fox,  and  Co., 
Gowff’d  Willie  like  a  ba’,  man, 

Till  Suthron  raise,  and  coost  their  claise 


316 


TO  A  HAGGIS. 

Behind  him  in  a  raw,  man  ; 

And  Caledon  threw  by  the  drone, 

And  did  her  whittle  draw,  man ; 

And  swoor  fu’  rude,  through  dirt  and  blood, 
To  make  it  guid  in  law,  man. 


*  — « — 

TO  A  HAGGIS. 

X^AIR  fa’  your  honest,  sonsie  face, 

Great  chieftain  o’  the  puddin’-race : 

Aboon  them  a’  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm  ; 

Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a  grace 
As  lang ’s  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fill, 

Your  hurdies  like  a  distant  hill ; 

Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a  mill 
In  time  o’  need, 

While  through  your  pores  the  dews  distil 
Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic  labour  dight, 

And  cut  you  up  wi’  ready  slight, 

Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 
Like  ony  ditch  ; 

And  then,  oh  what  a  glorious  sight, 
Warm-reekin’,  rich ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  and  strive, 

Dcil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive. 


TO  A  HAGGIS. 

Till  a’  their  weel-swall’d  kytes  belyve 
Are  bent  like  drums  ; 

Then  aukl  guidman,  maist  like  to  rive, 

“  Bethankit  !  ”  hums. 

Is  there  that  owre  his  French  ragout, 

Or  olio  that  wad  staw  a  sow, 

Or  fricassee  wad  mak  her  spew 
Wi’  perfect  scunner, 

Looks  down  wi’  sneering,  scornfu’  view 
On  sic  a  dinner  ! 

Poor  devil  !  see  him  owre  his  trash, 

As  feckless  as  a  withered  rash, 

His  spindle-shank  a  guid  whip-lasli, 

His  nievc  a  nit ; 

Through  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

Oh  how  unfit  ! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed, 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread, 
Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a  blade, 

He  ’ll  mak  it  whissle  ; 

And  legs,  and  arms,  and  heads  will  sned 
Like  taps  o’  thrissle. 

Ye  Powers  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
Ami  dish  them  out  their  bill  o’  fare, 

Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 
,  That  jaups  in  luggies ; 

But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu’  prayer, 

Gie  her  a  Haggis ! 


317 


318  PROLOGUE  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  WOODS. 


EXTEMPORE  IN  THE  COURT  OF  SESSION. 

Tune  —  Killiecrankie. 

LORD  ADVOCATE. 


TTE  clenched  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist, 
He  quoted  and  he  hinted, 

Till  in  a  declamation-mist, 

Ilis  argument  he  tint  it : 

He  gaped  for ’t,  he  graipcd  for ’t. 

He  fand  it  was  awa’,  man ; 

But  what  his  common-sense  came  short. 
He  eked  out  wi’  law,  man. 


MR.  ERSKENE. 

Collected  Harry  stood  a  wee, 

Then  opened  out  his  arm,  man ; 

His  lordship  sat  wi’  ruefu’  e’e, 

And  eyed  the  gathering  storm,  man ; 
Like  wind-driven  hail,  it  did  assail, 

Or  torrents  owre  a  linn,  man ; 

The  Bench  sae  wise  lift  up  their  eyes, 
Half-wauken’d  wi’  the  din,  man. 


PROLOGUE  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  WOODS  ON  HIS 
BENEFIT-NIGIIT. 


TX7TIEN  by  a  generous  Public’s  kind  acclaim, 

T  '  That  dearest  meed  is  granted  —  honest 
F  ame ; 

When  here  your  favour  is  the  actor’s  lot, 


PROLOGUE  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  WOODS.  819 

Nor  even  the  man  in  private  life  forgot ; 

What  breast  so  dead  to  heavenly  Virtue’s  glow, 
But  heaves  impassioned  with  the  grateful  throe  ? 

Poor  is  the  task  to  please  a  barbarous  throng, 

Tt  needs  no  Siddons’  powers  in  Southern’s  song ; 
But  here  an  ancient  nation  famed  afar, 

For  genius,  learning  high,  as  great  in  war  — 

Hail,  Caledonia,  name  for  ever  dear ! 

Before  whose  sons  I ’m  honoured  to  appear ! 
Where  every  science  —  every  nobler  art  — 

That  can  inform  the  mind,  or  mend  the  heart, 

Is  known ;  as  grateful  nations  oft  have  found 
Far  as  the  rude  barbarian  marks  the  bound. 
Philosophy,  no  idle  pedant  dream, 

Here  holds  her  search  by  heaven-taught  Reason’s 
beam ; 

Here  History  paints  with  elegance  and  force 
The  tide  of  Empire’s  fluctuating  course ; 

Here  Douglas  forms  wild  Shakspeare  into  plan, 
And  Harley  rouses  all  the  god  in  man. 

When  well-formed  taste  and  sparkling  wit  unite 
With  manly  lore,  or  female  beauty  bright 
(Beauty,  where  faultless  symmetry  and  grace, 

Can  only  charm  us  in  the  second  place) 

Witness  my  heart,  how  oft  with  panting  fear, 

As  on  this  night,  I’ve  met  these  judges  here! 

But  still  the  hope  Experience  taught  to  live, 

Equal  to  judge  —  you’re  candid  to  forgive. 

No  hundred-headed  Riot  here  we  meet, 

With  Decency  and  Law  beneath  his  feet ; 

Nor  Insolence  assumes  fair  Freedom’s  name, 

Like  Caledonians,  you  applaud  or  blame. 


320 


WILLIE'S  AW  A'. 


Oh  thou  dread  Power  !  whose  empire-giving  hand 
Has  oft  been  stretched  to  shield  the  honoured 


land  ! 


Strong  may  she  glow  with  all  her  ancient  fire  ! 
May  every  son  be  worthy  of  his  sire  ! 

Firm  may  she  rise  with  generous  disdain 
At  Tyranny’s  or  direr  Pleasure’s  chain  ! 

Still  self-dependent  in  her  native  shore, 

Bold  may  she  brave  grim  Danger’s  loudest  roar, 
Till  Fate  the  curtain  drops  on  worlds  to  be  no 


more  ! 


♦ 


WILLIE’S  AW  A’. 

ULD  chuckie  Reekie ’s  sair  distrest, 


Down  droops  her  ance  weel-burnished  crest, 
Nae  joy  her  bonny  buskit  nest 


Can  yield  ava, 


Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo’es  best  — 
Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

Oh  Willie  was  a  witty  wight, 

And  had  o’  things  an  unco  slight ; 

Auld  Reekie  aye  he  keepit  tight, 

And  trio;  and  braw  : 

But  now  they  ’ll  busk  her  like  a  fright  — 
Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

The  stillest  o’  them  a’  he  bowed  ; 

The  bauldest  o’  them  a’  he  cowed  ; 

They  durst  nae  mair  than  he  allowed, 


That  was  a  law  : 


WILLIE'S  AW  A'. 


321 


We ’ve  lost  a  birkie  weel  worth  gowd  — 
Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

Now  gawkies,  tawpies,  gowks,  and  fools, 

Frae  colleges  and  boarding-schools, 

May  sprout  like  simmer  puddock-stools 
In  glen  or  shaw  ; 

lie  wha  could  brush  them  down  to  mools  — 
Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

The  brethren  o’  the  Commerce-Chaumer 
May  mourn  their  loss  wi’  doolfu’  clamour ; 

He  was  a  dictionar  and  grammar 
Amang  them  a’ ; 

1  fear  they  *11  now  mak  monie  a  stammer  — 
Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  poets  pour, 

And  toothy  critics  by  the  score, 

In  bloody  raw  ! 

The  adjutant  o’  a’  the  core  — 

Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

Now  worthy  Gregory’s  Latin  face, 

Tytler’s  and  Greenfield’s  modest  grace, 
Mackenzie,  Stewart,  sic  a  brace 
As  Rome  ne’er  saw  ; 

They  a’  maun  meet  some  ither  place  — 
Willie ’s  awa’  ! 

Poor  Burns  e’en  Scotch  drink  canna  quicken  ; 
He  cheeps  like  some  bewildered  chicken, 

21 


■* 


VOL.  I. 


fl-22  WILLIE'S  AW  A'. 

Scared  frae  its  minnie  and  the  deckin’ 

By  hoodie-craw  ; 

Grief’s  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin’  — 
Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

Now  every  sour-mou’d  girnin’  blellum  — 

And  Calvin’s  folk,  are  fit  to  fell  him  ; 

And  self-conceited  critic  skellum 
1 1  is  quill  may  draw  ; 

lie  wha  could  brawlie  ward  their  bellum  — 
Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I’ve  sped, 

And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 

And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red, 

While  tempests  blaw  ; 

But  every  joy  and  pleasure ’s  fled  — 

Willie ’s  awa’ ! 

f 

May  I  be  Slander’s  common  speech, 

A  text  for  infamy  to  preach, 

And  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 
In  winter  snaw, 

When  I  forget  thee,  Willie  Creech, 
Though  far  awa’ ! 

May  never  wicked  Fortune  touzle  him  ! 

May  never  wicked  men  bamboozle  him ! 

Until  a  pow  as  auld ’s  Methusalem 
He  canty  claw  ! 

Then  to  the  blessed  New  Jerusalem 
Fleet  wing  awa’ ! 

O 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M'LEOD.  323 


ON  INCIVILITY  SHEWN  HIM  AT  INVERARY. 

X^/^HOE’ER  he  be  that  sojourns  here, 

I  pity  much  his  case, 

Unless  he  come  to  wait  upon 

The  Lord  their  God  —  his  Grace. 

There ’s  naething  here  but  Highland  pride, 
And  Highland  scab  and  hunger  : 

If  Providence  has  sent  me  here, 

’T  was  surely  in  an  anger. 


COMPOSED  ON  LEAVING  A  PLACE  IN  THE 
HIGHLANDS  WHERE  HE  HAD  BEEN  KINDLY 
ENTERTAINED. 

XXTIIEN  Death’s  dark  stream  I  ferry  o’er  — 
A  time  that  surely  shall  come  — 

In  Heaven  itself  I  ’ll  ask  no  more, 

Than  j  ust  a  Highland  welcome  ! 


ON  READING  IN  A  NEWSPAPER 

THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M’LEOD,  Esq., 

15 ROTHER  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  A  PARTICULAR  FRIEND 
OF  THE  AUTHOR’S. 


O  AD  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 
And  rueful  thy  alarms  : 


324  ON  TTIE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M'LEOD 

Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 
From  Isabella’s  arms. 

Sweetly  decked  with  pearly  dew 
The  morning  rose  may  blow, 

But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 
May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella’s  morn 
The  sun  propitious  smiled, 

But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 
Succeeding  hopes  beguiled. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  cords 
That  nature  finest  strung  : 

So  Isabella’s  heart  was  formed, 

And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

© 

Were  it  in  the  poet’s  power, 

Strong  as  he  shares  the  grief 

That  pierces  Isabella’s  heart, 

To  give  that  heart  relief ! 

Dread  Omnipotence  alone 
Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave, 

Can  point  the  brimful  grief-worn  eyes 
To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtue’s  blossoms  there  shall  blow, 

And  fear  no  withering  blast ; 

There  Isabella’s  spotless  worth 
Shall  happy  be  at  last. 


EL  EG  Y  ON  SIR  J.  IL  BLAIR.  325 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JAMES  HUNTER 

BLAIR. 


rPHE  lamp  of  (lay,  with  ill-presaging  glare, 

Dim,  cloudy,  sank  beneath  the  western  wave ; 
The  inconstant  blast  howled  through  the  darkening 
air, 

And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 


Lone  as  I  wandered  by  each  cliff  and  dell, 

Once  the  loved  haunts  of  Scotia’s  royal  train  ; 
Or  mused  where  limpid  streams  once  hallowed 
well, 

Or  mouldering  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane  ; 

The  increasing  blast  roared  round  the  beetling 

O  O 

rocks, 

The  clouds,  swift-winged,  flew  o’er  the  starry 
sky, 

The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks, 

And  shooting-meteors  caught  the  startled  eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east, 

And  ’mong  the  cliffs  disclosed  a  stately  form, 

In  weeds  of  wo  that  frantic  beat  her  breast, 

And  mixed  her  wailings  with  the  ravins  storm 

o  o 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

’T  was  Caledonia’s  trophied  shield  I  viewed  : 
Her  form  majestic  drooped  in  pensive  wo, 

The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 


326  ELEGY  ON  SIR  J.  IT.  BLAIR. 

Reversed  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war, 

Reclined  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurled, 
That  like  a  deathful  meteor  gleamed  afar, 

And  braved  the  mighty  monarchs  of  the  world 

u  My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave  !  ” 

With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms  she  cried  : 

“  Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretched  to  save, 
Low  lies  the  heart  that  swelled  with  honest 
pride. 

k‘  A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow’s  tear  ; 

The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan’s  cry ; 
The  drooping  arts  surround  their  patron’s  bier ; 
And  grateful  science  heaves  the  heartfelt  sigh  ! 

“  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire  ; 

I  saw  fair  Freedom’s  blossoms  richly  blow  ; 

But  ah  !  how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire  ! 
Relentless  fate  has  laid  their  guardian  low. 

“  My  patriot  falls  :  but  shall  he  lie  unsung. 

While  empty  greatness  saves  a  worthless  name  V 
No  :  every  Muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue, 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 

u  And  I  will  join  a  mother’s  tender  cares, 

Through  future  times  to  make  his  virtue  last : 

O  ' 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs  !  ”  — 
She  said,  and  vanished  with  the  sweeping  blast. 


TO  MISS  FERRIER.  827 


TO  MISS  FERRIER, 

ENCLOSING  THE  ELEGY  ON  SIR  J.  H.  BLAIR. 

VT AE  heathen  name  shall  I  prefix 
Frae  Pindus  or  Parnassus  ; 

Auld  Keekie  dings  them  a’  to  sticks, 

For  rhyme-inspiring  lasses. 

Jove’s  tuneful’  docliters  three  times  three 
Made  Homer  deep  their  debtor  ; 

But,  gien  the  body  half  an  e’e, 

Nine  Ferriers  wad  done  better  ! 

Last  day  my  mind  was  in  a  bog, 

Down  George’s  Street  I  stoited  ; 

A  creeping  cauld  prosaic  fog 
My  very  senses  doited. 

Do  what  I  dought  to  set  her  free. 

My  saul  lay  in  the  mire  ; 

Ye  turned  a  neuk  —  I  saw  your  ee  — 
She  took  the  wing  like  fire  ! 

The  mournfu’  sang  I  here  enclose 
In  gratitude  I  send  you  ; 

And  [wish  and]  pray  in  rhyme  sinceie, 
A’  gude  things  may  attend  you  ! 


328  WRITTEN  IN  THE  INN  AT  KEN  MORE 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY-PIECE 
IN  THE  PARLOUR  OK  THE  INN  AT  KENMOHE,  TAY- 
MOUTII. 

\  DMIRING  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 

^  These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I 
trace  ; 

O’er  many  a  winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 

The  abodes  of  covied  grouse  and  timid  sheep, 

My  savage  journey,  curious,  I  pursue, 

Till  famed  Breadiilbane  opens  to  my  view. 

The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 
The  woods,  wild  scattered,  clothe  their  ample 
sides  ; 

The  outstretching  lake,  imbosomed  ’mong  the  hills, 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills  ; 

The  Tay,  meandering  sweet  in  infant  pride, 

The  palace,  rising  on  its  verdant  side  ; 

The  lawns,  wood-fringed  in  Nature’s  native  taste; 
The  hillocks,  dropt  in  Nature’s  careless  haste  ; 

The  arches,  striding  o’er  the  new-born  stream  ; 
The  village,  glittering  in  the  noontide  beam  — 


Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell, 

Lone  wandering  by  the  hermit’s  mossy  cell : 

The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods  ; 

The  incessant  roar  of  headlong  tumbling:  floods  — 

o  O 

•  ••••••• 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  Heaven-taught  lyre, 
And  look  through  nature  with  creative  fire  ; 


THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY.  329 

Here  to  the  wrongs  of  Fate  half  reconciled, 
Misfortune’s  lightened  steps  might  wander  wild  ; 
And  Disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds, 

Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter,  rankling  wounds : 
Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heavenward  stretch 
her  scan, 

And  injured  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 


— ♦ — 

THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY. 

Tune  —  The  BirJcs  of  Abergeldy. 

chorus. 

T>  ONNY  lassie,  will  ye  go, 

^  Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go  ? 
Bonny  lassie,  will  ye  go 

To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ? 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes, 
And  o’er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays ; 
Come,  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  little  birdies  blithely  sing, 

While  o’er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  braes  ascend,  like  lofty  was, 

The  foamy  stream  deep-roaring  fa’s, 


330  PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER. 

O’erhung  wi’  fragrant  spreading  shaws, 

The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crowned  wi’  dowel's. 
White  o’er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 

And  rising,  weets  wi’  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Let  Fortune’s  gifts  at  random  flee, 

They  ne’er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me, 
Supremely  blest  svi’  love  and  thee, 

In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

— 4 — 

THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER  TO 
THE  NOBLE  DUKE  OF  ATHOLE. 

Y  lord,  I  know  your  noble  ear 
Wo  ne’er  assails  in  vain  ; 

Emboldened  thus,  I  beg  you  ’ll  hear 
Your  humble  slave  complain, 

How  saucy  Phoebus’  scorching  beams, 

In  flaming  summer-pride, 

Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams, 

And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

The  lightly-jumpin’  glowrin’  trouts, 

That  through  my  waters  play, 

If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray ; 

If,  hapless  chance !  they  linger  lang, 

I ’m  scorching  up  so  shallow, 


PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER. 

They  ’re  left  the  whitening  stanes  amang, 
In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 

Last  day  I  grat  wi’  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  Burns  came  by, 

That  to  a  bard  I  should  be  seen 
Wi’  half  my  channel  dry  : 

A  panegyric  rhyme,  I  ween, 

Even  as  I  was  he  shored  me ; 

But  had  I  in  my  glory  been, 

He,  kneeling,  wad  adored  me. 

Here,  foaming  down  the  shelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I  rin  : 

O  <  7 

There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes, 
Wild  roaring  o’er  a  linn : 

Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well, 

As  Nature  gave  them  me, 

I  am,  although  I  say ’t  mysel’, 

Worth  gaun  a  mile  to  see. 

Would  then  my  noble  master  please 
To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 

lie  ’ll  shade  my  banks  wi’  towering  trees, 
And  bonny  spreading  bushes. 

Delighted  doubly  then,  my  lord, 

You  ’ll  wander  on  my  banks, 

And  listen  monie  a  grateful  bird 
Beturn  you  tuneful  thanks. 

The  sober  laverock,  warbling  wild. 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire ; 

The  gowdspink,  Music’s  gayest  child, 


331 


332  PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER. 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir  : 

The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintwhite  clear, 
The  mavis  mild  and  mellow, 

The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer, 

In  all  her  locks  of  yellow. 

This,  too,  a  covert  shall  insure 
To  shield  them  from  the  storm  ; 

And  coward  maukin  sleep  secure, 

Low  in  her  grassy  form. 

Here  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  seat, 

To  weave  his  crown  of  flowers ; 

Or  find  a  sheltering  safe  retreat 
From  prone  descending  showers. 

And  here,  by  sweet  endearing  stealth, 
Shall  meet  the  loving  pair,  ( 

Despising  worlds  with  all  their  wealth 
As  empty  idle  care. 

The  flowers  shall  vie  in  all  their  charms 
The  hour  of  heaven  to  grace, 

And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms 
To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 

Here  haply  too,  at  vernal  dawn, 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray, 

And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn, 

And  misty  mountain  gray ; 

Or  by  the  reaper’s  nightly  beam, 
Mild-chequering  through  the  trees, 

Rave  to  my  darkly  dashing  stream, 
Hoarse  swelling  on  the  breeze. 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  FALL  OF  FYERS.  333 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool, 

My  lowly  banks  o’erspread, 

And  view,  deep  bending  in  the  pool, 

Their  shadows’  watery  bed  ! 

Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest 

O 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn  ; 

And,  for  the  little  songster’s  nest. 

The  close  embowering  thorn. 

So  may  old  Scotia’s  darling  hope, 

Your  little  angel  band, 

Spring,  like  their  fathers,  up  to  prop 
Their  honoured  native  land  ! 

So  may,  through  Albion’s  farthest  ken, 

To  social-flowing  glasses, 

The  grace  be  —  “  Athole’s  honest  men, 

And  Athole’s  bonny  lasses  1  ” 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  WHILE  STANDING  BY  THE  FALL  OF  FYERS 
NEAR  LOCH  NESS. 

A  MONG  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods, 
The  foaming  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods ; 
Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 

Where,  through  a  shapeless  breach,  his  stream  re¬ 
sounds. 

As  hi<di  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 

As  deep  recoiling  surges  foam  below  ; 

Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet  descends, 
And  viewless  Echo’s  ear,  astonished,  rends. 


334 

CASTLE-GORDON. 

Dim  seen,  through  rising  mists  and  ceaseless 
showers, 

The  hoary  cavern  wide  surrounding,  lowers  ; 

Still  through  the  gap  the  struggling  river  toils, 

And  still  below,  the  horrid  caldron  boils  — 

— ♦ - 

CASTLE-GORDON. 

O  TREAMS  that  glide  in  Orient  plains, 

^  Never  bound  by  Winter’s  chains  ; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 

There  commixed  with  foulest  stains, 

From  tyranny’s  empurpled  bands  ; 

These,  their  richly-gleaming  waves, 

I  leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves  ; 

Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 

The  banks  by  Castle- Gordon. 

Spicy  forests,  ever  gay, 

Shading  from  the  burning  ray 

Helpless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 

Or  the  ruthless  native’s  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil ; 

Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 

I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave  ; 

Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 

The  storms  by  Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly  here,  without  control, 

Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole  ; 

THE  BONNY  LASS  OF  ALBANY.  335 

In  that  sober,  pensive  mood, 

Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood. 
Life’s  poor  day  I  ’ll  musing  rave, 

And  find  at  night  a  sheltering  cave, 

Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave, 

By  bonny  Castle-Gordon. 


THE  BONNY  LASS  OF  ALBANY. 

Tune —  Mary's  Dream. 

TlfY  heart  is  wae,  and  unco  wae, 

^  To  think  upon  the  raging  sea, 

That  roars  between  her  gardens  green 
And  the  bonny  Lass  of  Albany. 

This  lovely  maid ’s  of  royal  blood 
That  ruled  Albion’s  kingdoms  three, 

But  oh,  alas  !  for  her  bonny  face, 

They ’ve  wranged  the  Lass  ot  Albany. 

In  the  rolling  tide  of  spreading  Clyde 
There  sits  an  isle  of  high  degree, 

And  a  town  of  fame  whose  princely  name 
Should  grace  the  Lass  of  Albany. 

But  there ’s  a  youth,  a  witless  youth, 

That  fills  the  place  where  she  should  be  ; 

We  ’ll  send  him  o’er  to  his  native  shore, 
And  bring  our  ain  sweet  Albany. 


336  ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER-FOWL. 


Alas  the  day,  and  wo  the  day, 

A  false  usurper  wan  the  gree, 

Who  now  commands  the  towers  and  lands, 
The  royal  right  of  Albany. 

We  ’ll  daily  pray,  we  ’ll  nightly  pray, 

On  bended  knees  most  fervently, 

The  time  may  come,  with  pipe  and  drum, 
We  ’ll  welcome  hame  fair  Albany. 


♦ 


ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER-FOWL  IN  LOCH 


TURIT. 

HY,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake, 


For  me  your  watery  haunt  forsake  ? 
Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 

Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 

Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ?  — 

Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 

Nature’s  gifts  to  all  are  free  : 

Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 

Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave  ; 

Or,  beneath  the  sheltering  rock, 

Bide  the  surging  billow’s  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 

Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace. 

Man,  your  proud  usurping  foe, 

Would  be  lord  of  all  below  : 

Plumes  himself  in  Freedom’s  prid€, 

Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 


N 


BLITHE  WAS  SEE . 


337 


The  eagle,  from  the  cliff}'  brow, 
Marking  you  his  prey  below, 

In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells, 

Strong  necessity  compels  : 

But  man,  to  whom  alone  is  given 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  Heaven, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane  — 

And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain. 
In  these  savage,  liquid  plains, 

Only  known  to  wandering  swains, 
Where  the  mossy  riv’let.  strays, 

Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways, 

All  on  Nature  you  depend, 

And  life’s  poor  season  peaceful  spend. 
Or,  if  man’s  superior  might 
Dare  invade  your  native  right, 

On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 

Man  with  all  his  powers  you  scorn  ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs  ; 

And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 

Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


BLITHE  WAS  SHE. 

Tune  —  Andro  and  his  Cutty  G-un. 


CHORUS. 

T>  LITHE,  blithe  and  merry  was  she, 
Blithe  was  she  but  and  ben  : 
Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Earn, 

And  blithe  in  Gientunt  Glen. 


VOL.  i. 


22 


338 


TEE  ROSE-DUD. 


By  Auclitertyre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o’  Yarrow  ever  saw. 

Her  looks  were  like  a  flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  morn  ; 

She  tripped  by  the  banks  o’  Earn, 

As  light ’s  a  bird  upon  a  thorn. 

Her  bonny  face  it  Avas  as  meek 
As  ony  lamb  upon  a  lea ; 

The  evening  sun  Avas  ne’er  sae  sAveet 
As  Avas  the  blink  o’  Phemie’s  e’e. 

The  Highland  hills  I ’ve  Avandered  wide, 
And  o’er  the  loAvlands  I  hae  been ; 

But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  deAvy  green. 


THE  ROSE-BUD. 

Tune  —  The  Shepherd's  Wife. 

ROSE-BUD  by  my  early  walk, 


AdoAvn  a  corn-enclosed  baAvk, 

Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk, 

All  on  a  deAvy  morning. 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o’  daAvn  are  fled, 
In  a’  its  crimson  glory  spread, 

And  drooping  rich  the  deAvy  head, 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 


TO  MISS  CR  U IK  SHANK.  339 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest, 

A  little  linnet  fondly  prest, 

The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 
Sae  early  in  the  mornjng. 

She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood, 

The  pride,  the  pleasure  o’  the  wood, 

Amano-  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedewed, 
Awake  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jenny  fair  ! 

On  trembling  string  or  vocal  air, 

Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 
That  tents  thy  early  morning. 

So  thou,  sweet  Rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day, 

And  bless  the  parent’s  evening  ray 

That  watched  thy  early  morning. 

— ♦ — 

TO  MISS  CRUIKSHANK,  A  VERY  YOUNG 

LADY. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A  BOOK  PRESENTED 
TO  HER  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

T3EAUTEOUS  Rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Blooming  in  thy  early  May, 

Never  mayst  thou,  lovely  flower, 

Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  shower  ; 

Never  Boreas’  hoary  path, 

Never  Eurus!  poisonous  breath, 

Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 

Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights  ! 


340  BRAVING  ANGRY  WINTER'S  STORMS. 

Never,  never  reptile  thief 
Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf, 

Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 
Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew  ! 

Mayst  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem, 

Richly  deck  thy  native  stem  : 

Till  some  evening,  sober,  calm, 

Dropping  dews  and  breathing  balm, 

While  all  around  the  woodland  rings, 

And  every  bird  thy  requiem  sings, 

Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound, 

Shed  thy  dying  honours  round, 

And  resign  to  parent  earth 

The  loveliest  form  she  e’er  gave  birth. 

« 

— » — 

WHERE  BRAYING  ANGRY  WINTER’S  STORMS. 

Tone  —  Neil  Gow's  Lamentation  for  Abercairny. 

TX^THERE,  braving  angry  winter’s  storms, 
*  *  The  lofty  Ochils  rise, 

Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy’s  charms 
First  blest  my  wondering  eyes  ; 

As  one  who  by  some  savage  stream 
A  lonely  gem  surveys, 

Astonished,  doubly  marks  its  beam, 

With  art’s  most  polished  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild,  sequestered  shade, 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour, 

Where  Peggy’s  charms  I  first  surveyed, 


MY  PEGGY'S  FACE.  34J 

When  first  I  felt  their  power  ! 

The  tyrant  Death,  with  grim  control, 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath  ; 

But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 
Must  be  a  stronger  death. 

O 


MY  PEGGY’S  FACE. 


Tune  —  My  Peggy's  Face. 


'|\/TY  Peggy’s  face,  my  Peggy’s  form, 

rpjie  fj.ost  0f  hermit  age  might  warm ; 

My  Peggy’s  worth,  my  Peggy’s  mind, 

Might  charm  the  first  of  humankind 
© 


I  love  my  Peggy’s  angel  air, 
Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art, 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy’s  heart. 


The  lily’s  hue,  the  rose’s  dye, 

The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye  — 
Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway  ! 
Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  ! 

The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 
The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear, 
The  gentle  look,  that  rage  disarms  — 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


342  ADDRESS  TO  MR.  TYTLER. 


ADDRESS  TO  MR.  WILLIAM  TYTLER. 

SENT  WITH  A  SILHOUETTE  PORTRAIT. 

13  EYE  RED  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 

Of  Stuart,  a  name  once  respected  — 

A  name  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a  true 
heart, 

But  now *t  is  despised  and  neglected. 

Though  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in  my 
eye, 

Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; 

A  poor  friendless  wanderer  may  well  claim  a  sigh, 
Still  more,  if  that  wanderer  were  royal. 

Mv  fathers  that  name  have  revered  on  a  throne  ; 

*  0  i 

My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 

Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate  son, 
That  name  should  lie  scoihngly  slight  it. 

Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I  most  heartily 
join. 

The  Queen,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry ; 

Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of  mine, 
Their  title ’s  avowed  by  my  country. 

But  why  of  that  epocha  make  such  a  fuss, 

That  <rave  us  the  Ilanover  stem  ? 

If  bringing  them  over  was  lucky  for  us, 

1  ’m  sure ’t  w  as  as  lucky  for  them. 


TO  MISS  CHARLOTTE  HAMILTON.  343 


But  loyalty  —  truce  !  we  ’re  on  dangerous  ground  ! 

Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 

The  doctrine  to-day  that  is  loyalty  sound, 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a  halter  ! 

I  send  you  a  trifle,  a  head  of  a  bard, 

A  trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care  ; 

But  accept  it,  good  sir,  as  a  mark  of  regard, 
Sincere  as  a  saint’s  dying  prayer. 

Now  life’s  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your  eye, 
And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night ; 

But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds  the  sky, 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 

— « — 

ON  A  YOUNG  LADY 

RESIDING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  SMALL  RIVER  DEVON, 
IN  CLACKMANNANSHIRE,  BUT  WHOSE  INFANT  YEARS 
WERE  SPENT  IN  AYRSHIRE. 

TT OW  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding 
Devon, 

With  green-spreading  bushes,  and  flowers  bloom¬ 
ing  fair  ! 

But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 
Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr. 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower, 

In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew, 
And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower, 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew  ! 


344  ELEGY  ON  PRESIDENT  DUNDAS. 

Oh  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 

With  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn  ! 
And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn  ! 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay-gikled  lilies, 

And  England  triumphant  display  her  proud 

rose  ; 

A  fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 

— • — 

elhgy  on  the  death  of  lord  president 

DUNDAS. 

T  ONE  on  the  bleaky  hills  the  straying  flo  ks 
Shun  the  fierce  storms  among  the  sheltering 
rocks  ; 

Down  from  the  rivulets,  red  with  dashing  rains, 
The  gathering  floods  burst  o’er  the  distant  plain.  , 
Beneath  the  blasts  the  leafless  forests  groan  ; 

The  hollow  caves  return  a  sullen  moan. 

Ye  hills,  ye  plains,  ye  forests,  and  ye  caves, 

Ye  howling  winds,  and  wintry  swelling  waves, 
Unheard,  unseen,  by  human  ear  or  eye, 

Sad  to  your  sympathetic  scenes  I  fly  ; 

Where  to  the  whistling  blast  and  water’s  roar 
Pale  Scotia’s  recent  wound  I  may  deplore. 

Oh  heavy  loss,  thy  country  ill  could  bear  ! 

A  loss  these  evil  days  can  ne’er  repair  ! 


ELEGY  ON  PRESIDENT  DUN I) AS.  345 

Justice,  the  high  vicegerent  of  her  God, 

Her  doubtful  balance  eyed,  and  swayed  her  rod  ; 
Hearing  the  tidings  ol  the  fatal  blow 
She  sank,  abandoned  to  the  wildest  wo. 

Wrongs,  injuries,  from  many  a  darksome  den, 

Now  gay  in  hope  explore  the  paths  of  men  : 

See  from  his  cavern  grim  Oppression  rise, 

And  throw  on  Poverty  his  cruel  eyes  ; 

Keen  on  the  helpless  victim  see  him  fly, 

And  stifle,  dark,  the  feebly-bursting  cry. 

Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distained  with  crimes, 
Rousin^  elate  in  these  degenerate  times  ; 

View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a  prey, 

As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way  : 
While  subtle  Litigation’s  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong  : 
Hark,  injured  Want  recounts  th’  unlistened  tale, 
And  much-wronged  Misery  pours  th’  unpitied  wail  i 

Ye  dark  waste  hills,  and  brown  unsightly  plains, 
To  you  I  sing  my  grief-inspired  strains  : 

Ye  tempests,  rage  !  ye  turbid  torrents,  roll ! 

Ye  suit  the  joyless  tenor  of  my  soul. 

Life’s  social  haunts  and  pleasures  I  resign, 

Be  nameless  wilds  and  lonely  wanderings  mine, 

To  mourn  the  woes  my  country  must  endure, 

That  wound  degenerate  ages  cannot  cure. 


346  A  FAREWELL  TO  CLARINDA. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  CLARINDA, 

ON  LEAVING  EDINBURGH. 

/CLARINDA,  mistress  of  my  soul, 

^  The  measured  time  is  run  ! 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 
Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie, 

Deprived  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 

The  sun  of  all  his  joy  ? 

We  part  —  but,  by  these  precious  drops 
That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes  ! 

No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 
Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 

Has  blest  my  glorious  day ; 

And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 
My  worship  to  its  ray  ? 


CONTRIBUTIONS 

TO  TIIE  SECOND  VOLUME  OF  JOHNSON'S  MUSEUM. 

— — ♦ - 

WHISTLE  AND  T’LL  COME  TO  YE,  MY  LAD. 

/"All  whistle  and  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad, 

Oh  whistle  and  I  ’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 
Though  father  and  mother  and  a’  should  gae  mad, 
Oh  whistle  and  I  ’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad. 

Come  down  the  back  stairs  when  ye  come  to  court 
me, 

Come  down  the  back  stairs  when  ye  come  to  court 
me, 

Come  down  the  back  stairs,  and  let  naebodv  see ; 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  coming  to  me. 

—4 - 

MACPHERSOX’S  FAREWELL. 

Tune  —  W  Plierson' s  Rant. 

ARE  WELL,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 
The  wretch’s  destinie ! 

Macpherson’s  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree. 


348 


STAY,  MY  CHARMER. 


Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he ; 

He  played  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round, 
Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Oh,  what  is  Death  but  parting  breath  ? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I ’ve  dared  his  face,  and  in  this  place 
I  scorn  him  yet  again  ! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword ; 

And  there ’s  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland 
But  I  ’ll  brave  him  at  a  word. 

I  *ve  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife  ; 

I  die  by  treacherie  : 

It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart, 

And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky ! 

May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die  1 

— ♦ — 

STAY,  MY  CHARMER. 

Tune  —  An  Gille  dubh  ciar  dhubh. 

Q  TAY,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 
^  Cruel,  cruel  to  deceive  me  ! 

Well  you  know  how  much  you  grieve  me ; 


S  TRA  T HALL  A  N  ’  S  LA  MEN  T.  349 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

By  my  love  so  ill  requited, 

By  the  faith  you  fondly  plighted, 

By  the  pangs  of  lovers  slighted, 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so  ! 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so ! 

— ♦ — 

STRATHALLAN’S  LAMENT. 

LpiIICKEST  night,  o’erhang  my  dwelling  ! 

A  Howling  tempests,  o’er  me  rave  ' 

Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 

Still  surround  my  lonely  cave ! 1 

Crystal  streamlets  gently  flowing, 

Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 

Western  breezes  softly  blowing, 

Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged, 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 

Honour’s  war  we  strongly  waged, 

But  the  heavens  denied  success. 

1  Variation  in  MS.  in  possession  of  Mr.  B.  Nightingale,  Priory 
Road.  Loudon :  — 

“  Thickest  night,  surround  my  dwelling! 

Howling  tempests,  o'er  me  rave  ! 

Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 

Roaring  by  my  lonely  cave  !  ” 


350  THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROVER. 

Ruin’s  wheel  has  driven  o’er  us, 

Not.  a  hope  that  dare  attend  : 

The  wide  world  is  all  before  us  — 

But  a  world  without  a  friend ! 

— • — 

THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROYER. 

Tone  —  Morag. 

T  OUD  blaw  the  frosty  breezes, 

The  snaws  the  mountains  cover : 
Like  winter  on  me  seizes, 

Since  my  young  Highland  Rover 
Far  wanders  nations  over. 

Where’er  he  go,  where’er  he  stray, 

May  Heaven  be  his  warden, 

Return  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey, 

And  bonny  Castle-Gordon  ! 

The  trees  now  naked  groaning, 

Soon  shall  wi’  leaves  be  hinging, 

The  birdies  dowie  moaning, 

Shall  a’  be  blithely  singing, 

And  every  flower  be  springing. 

Sae  I  ’ll  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day, 

AYhen  by  his  mighty  warden 
My  youth ’s  returned  to  fair  Strathspey, 
And  bonny  Castle-Gordon. 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING  OCEAN.  351 


RAVING  WINDS  AROUND  HER  BLOWING. 

Tune —  Macgregor  of  Ruara's  Lament. 

T>  AYING  winds  around  her  blowing, 

Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  s trowing, 
By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 

Isabella  strayed  deploring : 

“  Farewell  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure  ; 

Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheerless  night  that  knows  no  morrow ! 

“  O’er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering, 

On  the  hopeless  future  pondering, 

Chilly  Grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 

Fell  Despair  my  fancy  seizes. 

Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 

Load  to  Misery  most  distressing, 

Gladly  how  would  I  resign  thee, 

And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee  !  ” 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING  OCEAN. 

Tune  —  Druimion  Dubh. 

ly/fUSING  on  the  roaring  ocean, 

Which  divides  my  love  and  me, 
Wearying  Heaven  in  warm  devotion, 
For  his  weal  where’er  he  be  ; 

Hope  and  Fear’s  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  Nature’s  law, 


352 


BONNY  PEGGY  ALISON. 

Whisp’ring  spirits  round  my  pillow 
Talk  of  him  that ’s  far  awa\ 

Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded, 
Ye  who  never  shed  a  tear, 
Care-untroubled,  joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy  Day  to  you  is  dear. 

Gentle  Night,  do  thou  befriend  me, 
Downy  Sleep,  the  curtain  draw  ; 
Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, 

Talk  of  him  that ’s  far  awa’ ! 


BONNY  PEGGY  ALISON. 

Tujje  —  Braes  o’  Balquhidder. 


CHORUS. 

r  ’LL  kiss  thee  yet, -yet, 

And  I  ’ll  kiss  thee  o’er  again, 
And  I  ’ll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

My  bonny  Peggy  Alison  ! 


Ilk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  neai . 

I  ever  mair  defy  them,  O  ! 

Young  kings  upon  their  hansel  throne 
Are  no  sae  blest  as  I  am  O  ! 


When  in  my  arms,  wi’  a’  tin  charms, 
T  clasp  my  countless  treasure,  O, 


TO  CLARINDA. 


I  seek  nae  mair  o’  heaven  to  share 
Than  sic  a  moment’s  pleasure,  O  1 

And  by  thy  e’en,  sae  bonny  blue, 

1  swear  I ’m  thine  for  ever,  O  ! 
And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never,  O  ! 


TO  CLARINDA, 


WI  1  11  A  PRESENT  OF  A  PAIR  OF  DRIXKING-GLAsSES. 


AIR  Empress  of  the  Poet’s  soul, 


And  Queen  of  Poetesses, 

Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon, 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses. 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice, 
As  generous  as  your  mind, 

And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast  — 
“  The  whole  of  humankind  !  ” 

“  To  those  who  love  us  !  ”  —  second  fill  ; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love  ; 

Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us  ! 

A  third  —  “  To  thee  and  me,  love  !  ” 

von.  i.  23 


354  TIIE  CHEVALIER'S  LAMENT. 

THE  CHEVALIER’S  LAMENT. 

Tune  —  Captain  O'1  Kean. 

nnilE  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves 
returning, 

The  murmuring  streamlet  winds  clear  through 
the  vale  ; 

The  liawthorn-trees  blow  in  the  dew  of  the  morn¬ 
ing* 

And  wild  scattered  cowslips  bedeck  the  green 
dale  : 

But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem 
fair, 

While  the  lingering  moments  are  numbered  bv 
care  ? 

No  flowers  gaily  springing,  nor  birds  sweetly 
singing, 

Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 

The  deed  that  I  dared,  could  it  merit  their  malice, 

A  kino-  and  a  father  to  place  on  his  throne  V 

His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are  these 
valleys, 

Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but  I  can 
find  none. 

But ’t  is  not  my  sufferings  thus  wretched,  forlorn  ; 

My  brave  gallant  friends  !  ’t  is  your  ruin  I  mourn  ; 

Your  deeds  proved  so  loyal  in  hot  bloody  trial  — 

Alas  !  I  can  make  you  no  sweeter  return  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  HUGH  PARKER.  3ot 


EPISTLE  TO  HUGH  PARKER. 

I  N  this  strange  land,  this  uncouth  clime, 

A  land  unknown  to  prose  or  rhyme  ; 
Where  words  ne’er  crost  the  Muse’s  heckles. 
Nor  limpet  in  poetic  shackles  ; 

A  land  that  Prose  did  never  view  it, 

Except  when  drunk  he  stacher’t  through  if 
Here,  ambush’d  by  the  chimla  cheek, 

Hid  in  an  atmosphere  of  reek, 

I  hear  a  wheel  thrum  i’  the  neuk, 

I  hear  it —  for  in  vain  I  leuk. 

The  red  peat  gleams,  a  fiery  kernel, 
Enhusked  by  a  fog  infernal  : 

Here,  for  my  wonted  rhyming  raptures, 

I  sit  and  count  my  sins  by  chapters. 

For  life  and  spunk  like  ither  Christians, 

I ’m  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence  ; 

Wi’  nae  converse  but  Gallowa’  bodies, 

Wi’  nae  kenn’d  face  but  Jenny  Geddes. 
Jenny,  my  Pegasean  pride  ! 

Dowie  she  saunters  down  Nithside, 

And  aye  a  westlin  leuk  she  throws, 

While  tears  hap  o’er  her  auhl  brown  nose 
Was  it  for  this,  wi’  canny  care, 

Thou  bure  the  Bard  through  many  a  shire  V 
At  howes  or  hillocks  never  stumbled, 

And  late  or  early  never  grumbled  ? 

Oh,  had  I  power  like  inclination, 

I ’d  heeze  thee  up  a  constellation. 

To  canter  with  the  Samtarre. 

Or  loup  the  ecliptic  like  a  bar ; 


356  I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

Or  turn  the  pole  like  any  arrow  ; 

Or,  when  auld  Phoebus  bids  good-morrow, 
Down  the  zodiac  urge  the  race, 

And  cast  dirt  on  his  godship’s  face : 

For  I  could  lay  my  bread  and  kail 
He ’d  ne’er  cast  saut  upo’  thy  tail 
Wi’  a’  this  care  and  a’  this  grief, 

And  sma’,  sma’  prospect  of  relief, 

And  nought  but  peat-reek  i’  my  head, 
Ilow  can  I  write  what  ye  can  read  ? 
Torbolton,  twenty-fourth  o’  June, 

Ye  ’ll  find  me  in  a  better  tune  ; 

But  till  we  meet  and  weet  our  whistle. 
Tak  this  excuse  for  nae  epistle. 


I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

T  U  -N  E  —  Miss  A  dm  i  ral  Gordon's  Strathspey. 

/'YF  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

”  I  dearly  like  the  west, 

For  there  the  bonny  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo’e  best  : 

There ’s  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 
And  monie  a  hill  between  ; 1 

i  The  commencement  of  this  stanza  is  given  in  Johnson’ 
Musium  — 

“  There  wild  woods  grosv,’’  etc., 


I  LOVE  MY  JEAN .  857  * 

But  day  and  night  my  fancy’s  flight 
Is  ever  wi’  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair ; 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu’  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  : 

There ’s  not  a  bonny  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 

There ’s  not  a  bonny  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o’  my  Jean.1 

as  implying  the  nature  of  the  scenery  in  the  west.  In  Wood's 
Songs  of  Scotland ,  the  reading  is  — 

“  Though  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

Wi’  monie  a  hill  between, 

Baith  day  and  night,”  etc., 

evidently  an  alteration  designed  to  improve  the  logic  of  tho 
verse.  It  appears  that  both  readings  are  wrong,  for  in  the  origi¬ 
nal  manuscript,  of  Burns’s  contributions  to  Johnson,  in  the  pos¬ 
session  of  Archibald  Ilastie,  Esq.,  the  line  is  written  :  “  There 's 
wild  woods  grow,”  etc.,  as  in  our  text.  Another  example  will 
serve  to  bring  this  peculiarity  of  composition  more  distinctly 
before  the  mind  of  the  reader : 

By  Auchtertvre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw  ; 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o’  Yarrow  ever  saw. 

I  have  been  reminded  that  the  idea  is  not  new  in  verse  : 

“  kivetr]  fia/ia  ttoA/Lj,  [is ra^v 
O vpeu  re  OKtuevra,  duAacou  re  7]xwccsa-'" 

Iliad ,  i.  156. 

1  The  first  of  these  stanzas  appeared  in  the  third  volume  of 
Johnson’s  Museum.  Burns’s  note  upon  it  afterwards  was :  ”  This 
so ug  I  composed  out  of  compliment  to  Mrs.  Burns.  N.  B.  — It 
was  in  the  honeymoon.”  Two  additional  stanzas  were  some 
years  afterwards  produced  by  John  Hamilton,  music-seller  in 
Edinburgh : 

0  blaw,  ye  westlin’  winds,  blaw  saft, 

Ainang  the  leafy  trees, 


858 


I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 


Wi’  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 
Bring  hame  the  laden  bees  ; 

And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 
That ’s  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  •, 

Ae  smile  o’  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 
Ilae  passed  atween  us  twa  1 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part, 
That  night  she  gaed  awa'  ! 

The  powers  aboon  can  only  ken, 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 

That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 
As  mv  sweet  lovely  Jean 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

1759-1796. 


OH,  WERE  I  ON  PARNASSUS’  HILL! 
Tune  —  My  Love  is  lost  to  me. 

TAII,  were  I  on  Parnassus’  hill, 

^  Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill ! 

That  I  might  catch  poetic  skill, 

To  si  1152:  how  dear  I  love  thee. 

Rut  Nith  maun  be  my  Muse’s  well, 

My  Muse  maun  be  thy  bonny  sel’ ; 

On  Corsincon  I  ’ll  glower  and  spell, 

And  write  how  dear  I  love  thee. 

Then  come,  sweet  Muse,  inspire  my  lay  i 

For  a’  the  lee-lang  simmer’s  day 
©  *> 

I  couldna  sing,  I  could n a  say, 

How  much,  how  dear  I  love  thee. 

I  see  thee  dancing;  o’er  the  green, 

Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clear. 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  ecn  — 

By  heaven  and  earth  I  love  thee  ! 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 

The  thoughts  of  thee  my  breast  inflame: 
And  aye  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name  — 


360  FRIARS'  CARSE  HERMITAGE . 

I  only  live  to  love  thee. 

Though  T  were  doomed  to  wander  on 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 

Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run  ; 

Till  then  —  and  then  I  love  thee. 

— ♦ — 

VERSES  IX  FRIARS’  CARSE  HERMITAGE. 

nPHOU  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 

Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 

Be  thou  decked  in  silken  stole, 

Grave  these  maxims  on  thy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 

Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost ; 

Day,  how  rapid  in  its  flight; 

Day,  how  few  must  see  the  night. 

Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour, 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

Happiness  is  but  a  name, 

Make  content  and  ease  thy  aim. 

Ambition  is  a  meteor  gleam ; 

Fame  a  restless,  idle  dream  ; 

Pleasures,  insects  on  the  wing 

Round  Peace,  the  tenderest  flower  of  Spring 

Those  that  sip  the  dew  alone, 

Make  the  butterflies  thy  own ; 

Those  that  would  the  bloom  devour, 

Crush  the  locusts  —  save  the  flower. 

For  the  future  be  prepared, 

Guard  wherever  thou  canst  guard ; 

But,  thy  utmost  duly  done, 

Welcome  what  thou  canst  not  shun. 


THE  FETE  CHAMP ET RE. 

Follies  past,  give  tliou  to  air, 

Make  their  eonsequence  thy  care : 
Keep  the  name  of  man  in  mind, 

And  dishonour  not  thy  kind. 
Reverence,  with  lowly  heart, 

Him  whose  wondrous  work  thou  art ; 
Keep  Ilis  goodness  still  in  view, 

Thy  trust  —  and  thy  example  too. 

Stranger,  go !  Heaven  be  thy  guide  ! 
Quod  the  Bedesman  on  Nithside. 


THE  FETE  CHAMPETRE. 

Tune  —  Killierrankie. 

/'All  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen’s  House, 
To  do  our  errands  there,  man  ? 

Oh  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen’s  House, 

O’  th’  merry  lads  o’  Ayr,  man  ? 

Or  will  ye  send  a  man-o’-law  ? 

Or  will  ye  send  a  sodger  ? 

Or  him  wha  led  o’er  Scotland  a’ 

The  meikle  Ursa-Major  ? 

Come,  will  ye  court  a  noble  lord, 

Or  buy  a  score  o’  lairds,  man  ? 

For  worth  and  honour  pawn  their  word, 
Their  vote  shall  be  Glencaird’s,  man. 

Ane  gies  them  coin,  ane  gies  them  wine, 
Anither  gies  them  clatter  ; 

Anbank,  wha  guessed  the  ladies’  taste, 

He  gies  a  Fete  Champetre. 


3G1 


362  THE  FETE  CHAMPETRE. 

When  Love  and  Beauty  heard  the  news, 

The  gay  greenwoods  amang,  man, 

Where,  gathering  flowers  and  busking  bowel’s, 
They  heard  the  blackbird’s  sang,  man, 

A  vow,  they  sealed  it  with  a  k.ss, 

Sir  Politics  to  fetter, 

As  theirs  alone  the  patent-bliss 
To  hold  a  Fete  Champetre. 

Then  mounted  Mirth,  on  gleesome  wing, 

Ower  hill  and  dale  she  flew,  man  ; 

Ilk  wimpling  burn,  ilk  crystal  spring, 

Ilk  glen  and  shaw  she  knew,  man  : 

She  summoned  every  social  sprite, 

That  sports  by  wood  and  water, 

On  th’  bonny  banks  o’  Ayr  to  meet, 

And  keep  this  Fete  Champetre. 

Cauld  Boreas,  wi’  his  boisterous  crew, 

Were  bound  to  stakes  like  kye,  man  ; 

And  Cynthia’s  car,  o’  silver  fu’, 

Clamb  up  the  starry  sky,  man  : 

Reflected  beams  dwell  in  the  streams, 

Or  down  the  current  shatter  ; 

The  western  breeze  steals  through,  the  trees 

© 

To  view  this  Fete  Champetre. 

How  many  a  robe  sae  gaily  floats, 

What  sparkling  jewels  glance,  man, 

To  Harmony’s  enchanting  notes 
As  moves  the  mazy  dance,  man. 

The  echoing  wood,  the  winding  flood, 

Like  Paradise  did  glitter, 

O  7 


THE  DAY  RETURNS. 


3G3 


'Alien  angels  met,  at  Adam’s  yett, 

To  hold,  their  Fete  Champetre. 

When  Politics  came  there,  to  mix 
And  make  his  ether-stane,  man ! 

He  circled  round  the  magic  ground, 

But  entrance  found  he  nane,  man : 
lie  blushed  for  shame,  he  quat  his  name, 
Forswore  it,  every  letter, 

Wi’  humble  prayer  to  join  and  share 
This  festive  Fete  Champetre. 


— ♦ — 

THE  DAY  RETURNS. 

Tune —  Seventh  of  November. 

rTTIE  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet ; 
Though  winter  wild  in  tempest  toiled, 

Ne’er  summer  sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 

Than  a’  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o’er  the  sultry  line, 

Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes, 
Heaven  crave  me  more  —  it  made  thee  mine 

O 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 

Or  Nature  aught  of  pleasure  give, 

While  joys  above  my  mind  can  move, 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I  live. 

When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 
Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part, 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss  —  it  breaks  my  heart ! 


364  FIRST  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM. 


FIRST  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM  OF  FINTRY. 

TATIIEN  Nature  her  great  masterpiece  designed, 
'  "  And  framed  her  last,  best  work,  the  human 
mind, 

Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  mazy  plan, 

She  formed  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 


Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many  forth, 

Plain  plodding  industry,  and  sober  worth ; 

Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons  of  earth, 
And  merchandise’  whole  genus  take  their  birth ; 
Each  prudent  cit  a  warm  existence  finds, 

And  all  mechanics’  many-apron’d  kinds. 

Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet, 

The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  net ; 

The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires 

Makes  a  material  for  mere  knights  and  squires  ; 

The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to  flow ; 

She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic  dough, 

Then  marks  the  unyielding  mass  with  grave  designs, 
Law,  physic,  politics,  and  deep  divines  ; 

Last,  she  sublimes  the  Aurora  of  the  poles, 

The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The  order’d  system  fair  before  her  stood, 

Nature,  well  pleased,  pronounced  it  very  good ; 
But  ere  she  gave  creating  labour  o’er, 

Half-jest,  she  tried  one  curious  labour  more. 

Some  spumy,  fiery,  ignis  fatum  matter, 

Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might  scatter ; 
With  arch  alacrity  and  conscious  glee 
(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we, 


FIRST  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM.  365 

Her  Hogarth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to  shew  it), 
She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it  —  a  Poet  ; 
Creature,  though  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day,  unmindful  of  to-morrow ; 

A  being  formed  t’  amuse  his  graver  friends, 
Admired  and  praised  —  and  there  the  homage 
ends  : 

A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  Fortune’s  strife, 

Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life ; 

Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 

Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live  ; 

Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 

Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

But  honest  Nature  is  not  quite  a  Turk ; 

She  laughed  at  first,  then  felt  for  her  poor  work. 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind, 

She  cast  about  a  standard  tree  to  find ; 

And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 
Attached  him  to  the  generous  truly  great, 

A  title,  and  the  only  one  I  claim, 

To  lay  strong  hold  tor  help  on  bounteous  Graham. 

Pity  the  tuneful  Muses’  hapless  train, 

Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life’s  stormy  main  ! 
Their  hearts  no  selfish  stern  absorbent  stuff, 

That  never  gives  —  though  humbly  takes  enough; 
The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon, 

Unlike  sage  proverb’d  wisdom’s  hard-wrung  boon. 
The  world  were  blest  did  bliss  on  them  depend  : 
Ah,  that  “  the  friendly  e’er  should  want  a  friend  !  ” 
Let  prudence  number  o’er  each  sturdy  son, 

Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 

Who  feel  by  reason  and  who  give  by  rule 
VOL.  II  2 


366  FIRST  EPISTLE  Tu  MR.  GRAHAM. 


(Instinct ’s  a  brute,  and  sentiment  a  fool !)  — 
Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  I  should  — 

We  own  they’re  prudent,  but  who  feels  they  V 
good  ? 

Ye  wise  ones,  hence  !  ye  hurt  the  social  eye  ! 
God’s  image  rudely  etched  on  base  alloy  ! 

But  come,  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know, 
Heaven’s  attribute  distinguished  —  to  bestow  ! 
Whose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  the  human  race 
Come  thou  who  giv’st  with  all  a  courtier’s  grace, 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes, 
Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times  ! 

Why  shrinks  my  soul  half-blushing,  half-afraid, 
Backward,  abashed,  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid  ? 

I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving  hand, 

I  crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command ; 

But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tifneful  Nine  — 
Heavens !  should  the  branded  character  be  mine  !  — 
Whose  verse  in  manhood’s  pride  sublimely  flows. 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 

Mark,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injured  merit! 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find  ; 

Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind! 

So  to  heaven’s  gate  the  lark’s  shrill  sonsr  ascends. 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 

In  all  the  clam’rous  cry  of  starving  want, 

They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front ; 
Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  lays, 

They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days ! 

Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain. 

My  horny  fist  assume  the  plough  again ; 

The  piebald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more  * 


TTIE  MOTHERS  LAMENT.  367 

On  eighteenpence  a  week  I ’ve  lived  before. 
Though,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I  dare  even  that  last 
shift  ! 

I  trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift : 

That,  placed  by  thee  upon  the  wished-for  height. 
Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight, 

My  Muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sublime r 
flight. 

— « — 


MRS.  FERGUS  SOX  OF  CRAIGDARROCH’S  LAMEN¬ 
TATION  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON, 


AN  UNCOMMONLY  PROMISING  YOUTH  OF  EIGHTEEN  OR 
NINETEEN  YEARS  OF  AGE. 


T^ATE  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 
^  And  pierced  my  darling’s  heart ; 
And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 
Life  can  to  me  impart. 

By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops, 

In  dust  dishonoured  laid  : 

So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes, 

My  age’s  future  shade. 


The  mother  linnet  in  the  brake 
Bewails  her  ravished  young  ; 

So  I,  for  my  lost  darling’s  sake, 
Lament  the  live-day  long. 

Death  !  oft  I ’ve  feared  thy  fatal  blew. 

Now,  fond  I  bare  my  breast ; 

Oh,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low 
With  him  I  love,  at  rest  1 


368 


I  UAE  A  WIFE  O'  My  A IX. 


THE  LAZY  MIST. 


Tune  —  The  Lazy  Mist. 


E  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill, 


Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark-winding  rill ; 
How  languid  the  scenes,  late  so  sprightly,  appear ! 
As  Autumn  to  Winter  resigns  the  pale  year. 

The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows  are  brown, 
And  all  the  gay  foppery  of  Summer  is  flown  : 
Apart  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me  muse, 

IIow  quick  Time  is  flying,  how  keen  Fate  pursues  ! 

How  lono-  I  have  lived  —  but  how  much  lived  in 

© 


vain  ! 


How  little  of  life’s  scanty  span  may  remain  ! 

What  aspects  Old  Time,  in  his  progress,  has  worn  ! 
What  ties  cruel  Fate  in  my  bosom  has  torn  ! 

How  foolish,  or  worse,  till  our  summit  is  gained  ! 
And  downward,  how  weakened,  how  darkened, 
how  pained  ! 

This  life ’s  not  worth  having  with  all  it  can  give  : 
For  something  beyond  it  poor  man  sure  must  live 


♦ 


I  HAE  A  WIFE  O’  MY  AIN. 

T  HAE  a  wife  o’  my  ain, 

I  ’ll  partake  wi’  naebody  ; 

I  ’ll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane, 

I  ’ll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody. 


A  ULD  LANG  SYNE. 

I  hae  a  penny  to  spend, 

There  —  thanks  to  naebody  ; 

I  hae  naething;  to  lend, 

I  ’ll  borrow  frae  naebody. 

I  am  naebody’s  lord, 

I  ’ll  be  slave  to  naebody ; 

I  hae  a  gnid  braid  sword, 

I  ’ll  tak  dunts  frae  naebody. 

I  ’ll  be  merry  and  free, 

I  ’ll  be  sad  for  naebody  ; 

If  naebody  care  for  me, 

I  ’ll  care  for  naebody. 


— • — 

AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

^•IIOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  mind  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  days  o’  lang  syne  ? 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

We  ’ll  tak  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pil’d  the  gowans  fine ; 


369 


370  MY  BONNY  MARY. 

# 

But  we  ’ve  wandered  monie  a  weary  foot, 
Sin’  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl’t  i’  the  burn, 

Frae  morning  sun  till  dine  ; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared, 

Sin’  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here ’s  a  hand,  my  trusty  here, 

And  gie ’s  a  hand  o’  thine  ; 

And  we  ’ll  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  you  ’ll  be  your  pint-stoup, 

And  surely  I  ’ll  be  mine  ; 

And  we  ’ll  tak  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne 

— *— 


MY  BONNY  MARY 


That  I  may  drink  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonny  lassie. 

The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o’  Leith, 

Fu’  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  F erry ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-Law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonny  Mary. 


The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly. 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready ; 


FRIARS'  CARSE  HERMITAGE.  371 

The  shouts  o’  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody. 

But  it’s  not  the  roar  o’  sea  or  shore 
Wad  make  me  lancer  wish  to  tarry ; 

Nor  shouts  o’  war  that ’s  heard  afar  — - 
It ’s  leaving  thee,  my  bonny  Mary. 

— « — 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  FRIARS’  CARSE  HER¬ 
MITAGE. 

Extended  Copy. 

rTMIOU  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 

Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 

Be  thou  deekt  in  silken  stole, 

Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 

Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost ;  1 
Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour, 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

As  Youth  and  Love  with  sprightly  dance, 
Beneath  thy  morning-star  advance, 
l’leasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair  ; 

Let  Prudence  bless  Enjoyment’s  cup, 

Then  raptured  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

1  In  the  shorter  copy,  an  additional  couplet  is  here  inserted  — 

Day,  how  rapid  in  its  flight ! 

Day,  how  lew  must  see  the  night! 


372  FRIARS'  CARSE  HERMIT  ARE. 

* 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high, 

Life’s  meridian  flaming  nigh, 

Dast  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 

Life’s  proud  summits  wouldst  thou  scale  ? 
Cheek  thy  climbing  step,  elate, 

Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait : 

Dangers,  eagle-pinioned,  bold, 

Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold, 

While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song, 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Beck’ning  thee  to  long  repose, 

As  life  itself  becomes  disease, 

Seek  the  chimney-nook  of  ease  : 

There  ruminate  with  sober  thought, 

On  all  thou  ’st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought, 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 

Say,  man’s  true  genuine  .estimate, 

The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate, 

Is  not  —  art  thou  high  or  low  ? 

Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  V  1 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 

Or  frugal  Nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 

l  Variation  — 

Say.  man’s  true  genuine  estimate, 

The  grand  criterion  of  their  fate, 

The  important  query  of  their  state, 

Ts  not  —  art  thou  high  or  low  ? 

Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  How  ? 

Wast  thou  cottager  or  king, 

Peer  or  peas; t lit  ?  —  no  such  thing ! 

Did  many  talents,  etc. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  YEAR  1783.  373 

Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind, 

As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find, 

The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heaven 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  given. 

Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise, 

There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 

That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways 
Lead  to  be  wretched,  vile,  and  base. 

Thus  resigned  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep ; 

Sleep,  whence  thou  slialt  ne’er  awake. 

Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break, 

Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 

To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 

To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

Stranger,  go  !  Heaven  be  thy  guide  ! 

Quod  the  Bedesman  of  Nithside  ! 

— ♦ — 

ELEGY  ON  THE  YEAR  1788. 

C^OR  Lords  or  Kings  I  dinna  mourn, 

■*"  E’en  let  them  die  —  for  that  they  ’re  born  : 
But  oh  !  prodigious  to  reflee’  ! 

A  towmont,  sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck  ! 

Oh  Eighty-eight,  in  thy  sma’  space 
What  dire  events  hae  taken  place  ! 

Of  wliat  enjoyments  thou  hast  reft  us  ! 

In  what  a  pickle  thou  hast  left  us  ! 


374  ELEGY  ON  THE  YEAR  1783,. 

The  Spanish  empire’s  tint  a  head, 

And  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie ’s  dead ; 

The  tulzie ’s  sair  ’tween  Pit  and  Fox, 

And  our  guidwife’s  wee  birdie  cocks  : 

The  tane  is  game,  a  bluidie  devil, 

Rut  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil  ; 

The  tither’s  something  dour  o’  tread  in’, 

But  better  stuff  ne’er  clawed  a  midden. 

Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  pu’pit, 

And  cry  till  ye  be  hearse  and  roopit, 

For  Eighty-eight  he  wished  you  weel, 

And  gied  ye  a’  baith  gear  and  meal  ; 

E’en  monie  a  plack,  and  monie  a  peck, 

Ye  ken  yoursel’s,  for  little  feck  !  .  .  . 

Observe  the  very  nowt  and  sheep, 

How  dowf  and  dowie  now  they  creep : 

Nay,  even  the  yirth  itsel’  does  cry, 

For  Embro’  wells  are  grutten  dry. 

Oh  Eighty-nine,  thou ’s  but  a  bairn. 

And  no  owre  auld,  I  hope,  to  learn ! 

Thou  beardless  boy,  I  pray  tak  care, 

Thou  now  has  got  thy  daddy’s  chair, 

Nae  hand-cuffed,  muzzled,  hap-shackled  Regent, 
But,  like  himsel’,  a  full  free  agent. 

Be  sure  ye  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  warn*  than  he  did,  honest  man  I 
As  muekle  better  as  you  can. 


EXTEMPORE  TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL .  375 


A  SKETCH. 

A  LITTLE,  upright,  pert,  tart,  tripping  wight, 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight ; 
Who  loves  his  own  smart  shadow  in  the  streets, 
Better  than  e’er  the  fairest  she  he  meets. 

A  man  of  fashion,  too,  he  made  his  tour, 

Learned  vive  la  bagatelle ,  et  vine  V amour : 

So  travelled  monkeys  their  grimace  improve, 
Polish  their  grin,  nay,  sigh  for  ladies’  love. 

Much  specious  lore,  but  little  understood  ; 
Veneerin' r  oft  outshines  the  solid  wood  : 

His  solid  sense  —  by  inches  you  must  tell, 

But  mete  his  cunning  by  the  old  Scotch  ell ;  • 
His  meddling  vanity,  a  busy  fiend, 

Still  making  work  his  selfish  craft  must  mend. 


EXTEMPORE  TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL, 

ON  RETURNING  A  NEWSPAPER. 

VO  UR  news  and  review,  sir,  I’ve  read  through 
and  through,  sir, 

With  little  admiring  or  blaming ; 

The  papers  are  barren  of  home-news  or  foreign, 
No  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 

Our  friends,  the  reviewers,  those  chippers  and 
hewers, 

Are  judges  of  mortar  and  stone,  sir; 


376 


ODE  TO  MRS.  OSWALD. 


But  of  meet  or  unmeet ,  in  a  fabric  complete , 

I  'll  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none,  sir. 

My  goose-quill  too  rude  is  to  tell  all  your  goodness 
Bestowed  on  your  servant  the  poet ; 

Would  to  God  I  had  one  like  a  beam  of*  the  sun. 
And  then  all  the  world,  sir,  should  know  it  ! 


♦ 


ODE  : 


SACKED  TO  ”  fTK  M  EMORY  OF  MRS.  OSWALD. 

WELLER  in  yon  dungeon  dark, 


Hangman  of  creation,  mark  ! 
Who  in  widow-weeds  appeal's, 
Laden  with  unhonoured  veal’s, 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse, 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  ! 


STROPHE. 


View  the  withered  beldam’s  face  — 

Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 

Aught  of  humanity’s  sweet  melting  grace  ? 

Note  that  eye,  ’t  is  rheum  o’erflows, 

Pity’s  flood  there  never  rose. 

See  these  hands,  ne’er  stretched  to  save, 

Hands  that  took  —  but  never  gave. 

Keeper  of  Mammon’s  iron  chest, 

Lo  !  there  she  goes,  unpitied  and  unblest 
She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  everlasting  rest 


VERSES  TO  JOHN  TAYLOR.  377 


ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes 
(A  while  forbear,  ye  tort’ring  fiends)  ; 

Seest  thou  whose  step,  unwilling,  hither  bends  ? 
No  fallen  angel,  hurled  from  upper  skies  ; 

’T  is  thy  trusty  quondam  mate, 

Doomed  to  share  thy  fiery  fate, 

She,  tardy,  hellward  plies. 

EPODE. 

And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 

Ten  thousand  glittering  pounds  a  year  ? 

In  other  words,  can  Mammon  fail, 

Omnipotent  as  he  is  here  ? 

O  bitter  mockery  of  the  pompous  bier, 

While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is  driv’n  ! 
The  cave-lodged  beggar,  with  a  conscience  clear, 
Expires  in  rags,  unknown,  and  goes  to  heav’n. 


fO  JOHN  TAYLOR. 


\\7TTII  Pegasus  upon  a  day, 

”  '  Apollo  weary  flying, 

(Through  frosty  hills  the  journey  lay,) 
On  foot  the  way  was  plying. 


Poor  slipshod  giddy  Pegasus 
W  as  but  a  sorry  walker  ; 
To  Vulcan  then  Apollo  goes, 
To  get  a  irosty  calker. 


378  SKETCII :  INSCRIBED  TO  FOX . 

Oblionnoi;  Vulcan  fell  to  work, 

Threw  by  Ills  coat  and  bonnet, 

And  did  Sol’s  business  in  a  crack  ; 

Sol  paid  him  with  a  sonnet. 

Ye  Vulcan’s  sons  of  Wanlockhead, 
Pity  my  sad  disaster  ; 

My  Pegasus  is  poorly  shod  — 

I  ’ll  pay  you  like  my  master. 

— ♦ — 


SKETCH: 


INSCRIBED  TO  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX. 


TTOW  Wisdom  and  Folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite; 
How  Virtue  and  Vice  blend  their  black  and 
their  white  ; 

How  Genius,  the  illustrious  lather  of  Fiction, 
Confounds  Rule  and  Law,  reconciles  Contradic¬ 
tion  — 

I  sing  :  if  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should  bustle, 
I  care  not,  not  I ;  let  the  critics  go  whistle. 


But  now  for  a  Patron,  whose  name  and  whose 
glory 

At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 


Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits, 

Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem  mere 
lucky  hits  ; 

With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so 
strong, 


SKETCH:  INSCRIBED  TO  FOX.  379 


No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  went  far  wronir ; 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright, 

No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  went  quite 
right ; 

A  sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  Muses, 

For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses.1 

[Good  L — d,  what  is  man  ?  for  as  simple  he  looks, 
Do  but  try  to  develop  his  hooks  and  his  crooks  ; 
With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good  and  his 
evil, 

All  in  all  he ’s  a  problem  must  puzzle  the  devil. 
On  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely  labours, 
That,  like  th’  old  Hebrew  walking-switch,  eats  up 
its  neighbours  : 

Mankind  are  his  show-box  —  a  friend,  would  you 
know  him  ? 

Pull  the  string,  ruling  passion  the  picture  will 
shew  him. 

What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a  system, 

One  trifling  particular,  Truth,  should  have  missed 
him  ; 

For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions, 

Mankind  is  a  science  defies  definitions. 

Some  sort  all  our  qualities  each  to  its  tribe, 

And  think  human  nature  they  truly  describe ; 
Have  you  found  this  or  t’  other  !  there ’s  more  in 
the  wind, 

As  by  one  drunken  fellow  his  comrades  you  ’ll 
find. 


The  verses  following  within  brackets  were  added  afterwards. 


380  SKETCH:  INSCRIBED  TO  FOX. 

But  such  is  the  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  the  plan, 

In  the  make  of  that  wonderful  creature  called 
Man, 

No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim, 

Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the  same, 

Though  like  as  was  ever  twin-brother  to  brother, 
Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you ’ve  the  other.1 

But  truce  with  abstraction,  and  truce  with  the 
Muse, 

Whose  rhymes  you  ’ll  perhaps,  sir,  ne’er  deign  to 
peruse  : 

Will  you  leave  your  justings,  your  jars,  and  your 
quarrels, 

Contending  with  Billy  for  proud-nodding  laurels  ? 
My  much-honoured  Patron,  believe  your  poor  Poet, 
Your  courage  much  more  than  your  prudence  you 
shew  it. 

In  vain  with  Squire  Billy  for  laurels  you  struggle, 
He  ’ll  have  them  by  fair  trade,  if  not  he  will 
smuggle ; 

Not  cabinets  even  of  kings  would  conceal  ’em, 

He ’d  up  the  back-stairs,  and  by  G —  he  would 
steal  ’em  ! 

Then  feats  like  Squire  Billy’s  you  ne’er  can  achieve 
’em  : 

It  is  not,  out-do  him  —  the  task  is,  out-thieve 
him  !] 

l  The  verses  following  this  line  were  first  printed  from  a  manu¬ 
script  of  Burns,  in  Pickering's  edition. 


ON  A  WOUNDED  HARE.  381 


ON  A  WOUNDED  HARE. 

TNIIUMAN  man  !  curse  on  thy  barbarous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  ! 

May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart ! 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field, 

The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  : 

No  more  the  thickening  brakes  or  verdant  plains 
To  thee  a  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  innocent,  some  wonted  form  ; 

That  wonted  form,  alas  !  thy  dying  bed  ! 

The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o’er  thy  head, 
The  cold  earth  with  thy  blood-stained  bosom  warm. 

Perhaps  a  mother’s  anguish  adds  its  wo  ; 

The  playful  pair  crowd  fondly  by  thy  side  ; 

Ah  !  helpless  nurslings,  who  will  now  provide 
That  life  a  mother  only  can  bestow  ? 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 

I  ’ll  miss  thee  sporting  o’er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruthless  wretch,  and  mourn  thy 
hapless  fate. 

VOL.  II.  3 


382 


ON  A  WOUNDED  HARE . 


DELTA. 


Tj^AIR  the  face  of  orient  day, 

Fair  the  tints  of  op’ning  rose ; 
But  fairer  still  my  Delia  dawns, 
More  lovely  far  her  beauty  shews. 


Sweet  the  lark’s  wild  warbled  lay. 
Sweet  the  tinkling  rill  to  hear; 
But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still, 
Steal  thine  accents  on  mine  ear. 


The  flower-enamoured  busy  bee 
The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip  ; 

Sweet  the  streamlet's  limpid  lapse 
To  the  sun-browned  Arab’s  lip. 

But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 

Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rove  ; 

O  let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss, 

For,  oh  !  my  soul  is  parched  with  love! 


— ♦ — 

ON"  SEEING  A  WOUNDED  HARE  LIMP  BY  ME, 

WHICH  A  FEU.OW  HAD  JUST  SHOT. 

rNHUMAN  man  !  curse  on  thy  barbarous  art, 

^  And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye ; 

May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart ! 


LETTER  TO  JAMES  TENNANT.  383 


Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field  ! 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  : 

No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant 
plains 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted  rest, 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed  ! 

The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o’er  thy  head, 
The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 

I  ’ll  miss  thee  sporting  o’er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruffian’s  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hap¬ 
less  fate. 


LETTER  TO  JAMES  TENNANT,  OF  GLENCON- 

NER. 


\  ULD  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner, 
How ’s  a’  the  folk  about  Glenconner  ? 
How  do  you,  this  blae  eastlin  wind, 

That ’s  like  to  blaw  a  body  blind  ? 

For  me,  my  faculties  are  frozen, 

And  ilka  member  nearly  dozen’d. 

I 've  sent  you  here,  by  Johnnie  Simson, 
Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on  : 
Smith,  wi’  his  sympathetic  feeling, 

And  Reid,  to  common-sense  appealing. 
Philosophers  have  fought  and  wrangled, 


3S4  LETTER  TO  JAMES  TENNANT. 

And  meikle  Greek  and  Latin  mangled, 

Till,  wi’  their  logic  jargon  tir’d, 

And  in  the  depth  of  science  mir’d, 

To  common-sense  they  now  appeal, 

What  wives  and  wabsters  see  and  feel. 

But,  hark  ye,  friend  !  I  charge  you  strictly, 
Peruse  them,  and  return  them  quickly, 

For  now  I’m  crown  sae  cursed  douce, 

I  pray  and  ponder  butt  the  house ; 

My  shins,  my  lane,  I  there  sit  roastin’, 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  and  Boston : 

Till  by  and  by,  if  I  baud  on, 

I  ’ll  grunt  a  real  gospel  groan. 

Already  I  begin  to  try  it, 

To  cast  my  e’en  up  like  a  pyet, 

When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o’er, 
Flutt’ring  and  gasping  in  her  gore  : 

Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace  and  wale  o’  honest  men. 

When  bending  down  wi’  auld  gray  hairs, 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares, 

May  He  who  made  him  still  support  him, 
And  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort  him ; 
His  worthy  fam’ly  far  and  near, 

God  bless  them  a’  wi’  grace  and  gear  ! 

My  auld  school-fellow,  Preacher  Willie, 
The  manly  tar,  my  Mason  billie, 

And  Auehenbay,  I  wish  him  joy; 

If  he ’s  a  parent,  lass,  or  boy. 


LETTER  TO  JAMES  TENNANT.  385 

May  lie  be  dad,  and  Meg  the  mither, 

Just  five-and-forty  years  thegither  ! 

And  no  forgetting  Wabster  Charlie, 

I ’m  told  he  offers  very  fairly. 

And,  Lord,  remember  Singing  Sannock 
Wi’  hale  breeks,  saxpence,  and  a  bannock  ; 
And  next  my  auld  acquaintance  Nancy, 

Since  she  is  fitted  to  her  fancy ; 

And  her  kind  stars  hae  airted  till  her 
A  good  cliiel  wi’  a  pickle  siller. 

My  kindest,  best  respects  I  sen’  it, 

To  Cousin  Kate  and  Sister  Janet ; 

Tell  them,  frae  me,  wi’  cliiels  be  cautious, 

For,  faith,  they  ’ll  aiblins  fin’  them  fashious. 
And  lastly,  Jamie,  for  yoursel’, 

May  guardian  angels  tak  a  spell, 

And  steer  you  seven  miles  south  o’  hell. 

But  first,  before  you  see  heaven’s  glory, 

May  ye  get  monie  a  merry  story  ; 

Monie  a  laugh,  and  monie  a  drink, 

And  aye  eneugh  o’  needfu’  clink. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  and  joy  be  wi’  you  ; 

For  my  sake  this  I  beg  it  o’  you, 

Assist  poor  Simson  a’  ye  can, 

Ye  ’ll  fin’  him  just  an  honest  man  : 

Sae  I  conclude,  and  quat  my  chanter, 

Yours,  saint  or  sinner, 

Rob  tiie  Ranter. 


386  ADDRESS  TO  THE  TOOTHACHE. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  TOOTHACHE. 


1\/TY  curse  upon  thy  venomed  stang, 

^  That  shoots  my  tortured  gums  alang 
And  through  my  lugs  gies  monie  a  twang, 
Wi’  gnawing  vengeance, 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi’  bitter  pang, 


Like  racking  engines  ! 


When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes, 
Our  neighbour’s  sympathy  may  ease  us 
Wi’  pitying  moan  ; 

But  thee  —  thou  hell  o’  a’  diseases, 
Aye  mocks  our  groan  ! 


Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle  ! 
I  kick  the  wee  stools  o’er  the  mickle, 
As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle, 
To  see  me  loup  ; 

While,  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 
Were  in  their  doup. 


O’  a’  the  num'rous  human  dools, 

Ill  har’sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 
Or  worthy  friends  raked  i’  the  mools, 
Sad  sight  to  see  ! 

The  tricks  o’  knaves,  or  fash  o’  fools  — 
Thou  bear’st  the  gree. 

Where’er  that  place  be  priests  ca’  hell, 
Whence  a’  the  tones  o’  misery  yell, 


THE  KIRK'S  ALARM.  387 

And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfu’  raw, 

Thou,  Toothache,  surely  bear’st  the  bell 
Amang  them  a’ ! 

O  thou  grim  mischief-making  cliiel, 

That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel, 

Till  daft  Mankind  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe-thick  !  — 

Gie  a’  the  faes  o’  Scotland’s  weal 

A  towmond’s  toothache  I 

— ♦ — 

THE  KIRK’S  ALARM. 

/~\llTIIODOX,  orthodox, 

Wha  believe  in  John  Knox, 

Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience  ; 
There ’s  a  heretic  blast 
Has  been  blawn  in  the  wast, 

That  what  is  not  sense  must  be  nonsense 

Dr.  Mac,  Dr.  Mac, 

You  should  stretch  on  a  rack, 

To  strike  evildoers  wi’  terror  ; 

To  join  faith  and  sense, 

Upon  any  pretence, 

Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

Town  of  Ayr,  town  of  Ayr, 

It  was  mad,  I  declare, 


388 


THE  KIRK'S  ALARM. 


To  meddle  wi’  mischief  a-brewing; 
Provost  John  is  still  deaf 
To  the  church’s  relief, 

And  Orator  Bob  is  its  ruin. 

D’rymple  mild,  D’rymple  mild, 
Though  your  heart ’s  like  a  child, 
And  your  life  like  the  new-driven  snaw  ; 
Yet  that  winna  save  ye, 

Auld  Satan  must  have  ye, 

For  preaching  that  three’s  ane  and  twa. 

Rumble  John,  Rumble  John, 

Mount  the  steps  wi’  a  groan, 

Cry,  the  book  is  wi’  heresy  crammed  ; 
Then  lug  out  your  ladle, 

Deal  brimstone  like  adle, 

And  roar  every  note  of  the  damned. 

Simper  James,  Simper  James, 
Leave  the  fair  Killie  dames, 

There ’s  a  holier  chase  in  your  view  ; 

I  ’ll  lay  on  your  head, 

That  the  pack  ye  ’ll  soon  lead, 

For  puppies  like  you  there ’s  but  few 

Singet  Sawney,  Singet  Sawney, 
Are  ye  huirding  the  penny, 
Unconscious  what  evils  await ; 

Wi’  a  jump,  yell,  and  howl, 

Alarm  every  soul, 

For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 


THE  KIRK'S  ALARM.  389 

Daddy  Auld,  Daddy  Auld, 

There ’s  a  tod  in  the  fauld, 

A  tod  meikle  waur  than  the  clerk ; 

Though  ye  downa  do  skaith, 

Ye  ’ll  be  in  at  the  death, 

And  if  ye  canna  bite,  ye  may  bark. 

Davie  Bluster,  Davie  Bluster, 

For  a  saint  if  ye  muster, 

The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits  ; 

Yet  to  worth  let’s  be  just, 

Royal  blood  ye  might  boast, 

If  the  ass  was  the  kino;  of  the  brutes. 

Jamy  Goose,  Jamy  Goose, 

Ye  hae  made  but  toom  roose, 
in  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant; 

But  the  Doctor ’s  your  mark, 

For  the  L — d’s  lialy  ark, 

He  has  cooper’d  and  cawt  a  wrong  pin  in  t 

Poet  Willie,  Poet  Willie, 

Gie  the  Doctor  a  volley, 

Wi’  your  “  Liberty’s  chain  ”  and  your  wit ; 
O’er  Pegasus’  side 
Ye  ne’er  laid  a  stride, 

Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he - . 

Andro  Gouk,  Andro  Gouk, 

Ye  may  slander  the  book, 

And  the  book  not  the  waur,  let  me  tell  ye  ; 
Ye  are  rich,  and  look  big, 


390  THE  KIRK'S  ALARM. 

But  lay  by  hat  and  wig, 

And  ye  ’ll  liae  a  calf’s  head  o’  sma’  value. 

Barr  Steenie,  Barr  Steenie, 

What  mean  ye  —  what  mean  ye  ? 

If  ye  ’ll  meddle  nae  mair  wi’  the  matter, 

Ye  may  hae  some  pretence 
To  havins  and  sense, 

Wi’  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 

Irvine-side,  Irvine-side, 

Wi’  your  turkey-cock  pride, 

Of  manhood  but  sma’  is  your  share  ; 

Ye ’ve  the  figure,  ’t  is  true, 

Even  your  faes  will  allow, 

And  your  friends  they  dare  grant  you  nae  mair 

Muirland  Jock,  Muirland  Jock, 

Whom  the  L — d  made  a  rock 
To  crush  Common  Sense  for  her  sins, 

If  ill  manners  were  wit, 

There ’s  no  mortal  so  fit 
To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Holy  Will,  Holy  Will, 

There  was  wit  i’  your  skull, 

When  ye  pilfered  the  alms  o’  the  poor  ; 

The  timmer  is  scant, 

When  ye  ’re  ta’en  for  a  saunt, 

Wha  should  swing  in  a  rape  for  a  hour. 

Calvin’s  sons,  Calvin’s  sons, 

Seize  your  spir’tual  guns, 


WILLIE  BREWED  A  PECK  O'  MAUT.  391 


Ammunition  you  never  can  need  ; 

Your  hearts  are  the  stuff, 

Will  be  powther  enough, 

And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o’  lead. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Burns, 

Wi’  your  priest-skelping  turns, 

Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 
Though  your  Muse  is  a  gipsy, 

Yet  were  she  e’en  tipsy, 

She  could  ca’  us  nae  waur  than  we  are.1 


WILLIE  BREWED  A  PECK  O’  MAUT. 


(  \  WILLIE  brewed  a  peck  o’  maut, 
And  Rob  and  Allan  earn  to  pree  : 
Three  blither  hearts  that  lee-lang  night 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

We  are  na  fou’,  we  ’re  nae  that  fou’, 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e’e  ; 


1  In  the  present  version  of  this  poem,  advantage  is  taken  of  a 
few  various  readings  from  a  copy  published  by  Allan  Cunning¬ 
ham,  iu  which  there  is  a  curious  repetition  of  the  last  line  oEeach 
verse,  along  with  the  name  of  the  party  addressed.  A  specimen 
of  this  arrangement  is  given  in  the  following  additional  stanza, 
from  Allan’s  copy  :  — 

Afton’s  laird,  Afton's  laird, 

When  your  pen  can  be  spared, 

A  copy  of  this  I  bequeath 
On  the  same  sicker  score, 

As  I  mentioned  before, 

To  that  trusty  auld  worthy,  Clackleith, 

Afton's  laird ; 

To  that  trusty  auld  worthy,  Clackleith. 


392  THE  WHISTLE. 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
And  aye  we  ’ll  taste  the  barley-bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 

Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we  ; 

And  monie  a  night  we’ve  merry  been, 

And  monie  mae  we  hope  to  bo  ' 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 

That ’s  blinkin’  in  the  lift  sae  hie ; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wile  us  hame, 

But,  by  my  sooth,  she  ’ll  wait  a  wee  ! 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa’, 

A  cuckold,  coward  looa  is  he  ! 

Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa’, 
lie  is  the  king  amang  us  three  ! 

O  O 

- • - 

THE  WHISTLE. 

T  SING  of  a  whistle,  a  whistle  of  worth, 

A  I  sing  of  a  whistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 
Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good  Scottish  king, 
And  long  with  this  whistle  all  Scotland  shall  ring. 

Old  Loda,  still  rueing  the  arm  of  Fingal, 

The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  his  hall : 

“  This  whistle ’s  your  challenge  —  to  Scotland  get 
o’er, 

And  drink  them  to  hell,  sir!  or  ne’er  see  me 
more !  ” 


THE  WHISTLE.  393 

Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles  tell, 

What  champions  ventured,  what  champions  fell ; 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still, 

And  blew  on  the  whistle  his  requiem  shrill ; 

Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the  Skarr, 
Unmatched  at  the  bottle,  unconquered  in  Avar, 

He  drank  his  poor  godship  as  deep  as  the  sea  — 
No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e’er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus  Robert,  victorious,  the  trophy  has  gained, 
Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages  remained  ; 
Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of  his  blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  reneAved. 

Three  joyous  good  felloAvs,  Avith  hearts  clear  of  flaw  : 
Craigdarroch,  so  famous  tor  Avit,  Avorth,  and  laAV  ; 
And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skilled  in  old  coins  ; 

And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep-read  in  old  Avines. 

Craigdarroch  began,  Avith  a  tongue  smooth  as  oil, 
Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  «roil ; 

Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  the  clan, 
And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  Avhich  Avas  the  man. 

“  By  the  gods  of  the  ancients  !  ”  Glenriddel  replies, 
“  Before  I  surrender  so  glorious  a  prize, 

I’ll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rorie  More, 
And  bumper  his  horn  Avith  him  tAventy  times  o’er/' 

Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  no  speech  would  pretend, 
But  he  ne’er  turned  his  back  on  his  foe  —  or  his 
friend  ; 


394  THE  WHISTLE. 

Said,  Toss  down  the  whistle,  the  prize  of  the  field, 
And  knee-deep  in  claret,  he ’d  die,  or  he ’d  yield. 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair, 

So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care ; 

But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more  known  to 
fame 

Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste  of  a  sweet  lovely 
dame. 

A  bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray, 

And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day  ; 

A  bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen, 

And  wished  that  Parnassus  a  vineyard  had  been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply, 

And  every  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  of  joy ; 

In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred  so  set, 
And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they 
were  wet. 

Gay  Pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o’er ; 

Bright  Phoebus  ne’er  witnessed  so  joyous  a  core, 
And  vowed  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite  forlorn, 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he ’d  see  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  apiece  had  well  wore  out  the  night, 
When  gallant  Sir  Robert,  to  finish  the  fight. 
Turned  o’er  in  one  bumper  a  bottle  of  red, 

And  swore ’t  was  the  way  that  their  ancestor  did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and  sage, 

No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would  wage  * 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN.  395 

A  high  ruling-elder  to  wallow  in  wine  ! 

O  O 

He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the  end ; 
But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart-bumpers  contend  ? 
Though  fate  said  —  a  hero  shall  perish  in  light ; 

So  up  rose  bright  Phoebus  —  and  down  fell  the 
knight. 

Next  up  rose  our  bard,  like  a  prophet  in  drink  : 

“  Craigdarroch,  thou  ’It  soar  when  creation  shall 
sink ; 

But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme, 
Come  —  one  bottle  more  —  and  have  at  the  sub¬ 
lime  ! 

“  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  freedom  with 
Bruce, 

Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce  : 

So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay  ; 

The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of 
day !  ” 

— ♦ — 

TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

npiIOU  ling’ring  star,  with  less’ning  ray, 

■*"  That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

Again  thou  usher’st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Ilear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 


396  EPISTLE  TG  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ! 

Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past, 

Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace,  — 

Ah  !  little  thought  we ’t  was  our  last  S 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O’erhung  with  wild  woods,  thiek’ning  green 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twined  am’rous  round  the  raptured  scene  ; 

The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray  — 

Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  mem’ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ; 

Time  but  th’  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  V 


TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 


T \T  OW,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie  ! 

’  "  And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie  ? 


EPISTLE  TO  DR.  BLACKLOCE. 

I  kenned  it  still  your  wee  bit  jauntie, 
Wad  bring  ye  to  : 

Lord  send  you  aye  as  weel ’s  I  want  ye, 
And  then  ye  ’ll  do. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron  south  ! 

And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth  ! 

He  tauld  mysel’  by  word  o’  mouth, 

He ’d  tak  my  letter  ; 

I  lippened  to  the  chield  in  trouth, 

And  bade  nae  better. 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 

Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one, 

To  ware  his  theologic  care  on, 

And  holy  study  ; 

And  tired  o’  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on, 
E’en  tried  the  body. 

But  what  d  ’ye  think,  my  trusty  fier  ? 

I ’m  turned  a  gauger  —  Peace  be  here  ! 

Parnassian  queans,  I  fear,  I  fear, 

Ye  ’ll  now  disdain  me  ! 

And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a  year 
Will  little  gain  me. 

Ye  glaiket,  gleesome,  dainty  damies, 

Wha,  by  Castalia’s  wimplin’  streamies, 

Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbies, 
Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 

That  strang  Necessity  supreme  is 
’Manor  sons  o’  men. 

•  O 

VOL.  II.  4 


397 


398  EPISTLE  TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 

They  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o’  daddies ; 

Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is  — 

I  need  na  vaunt, 

But  I  ’ll  sned  besoms  —  thraw  saugh  woodies, 
Before  they  want. 

Lord,  help  me  through  this  warld  o’  care  ! 

I ’m  weary  sick  o’ ’t  late  and  air  ! 

Not  but  I  hae  a  richer  share 

Than  monie  ithers  ; 

But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare, 

And  a’  men  brithers  ? 

Come,  firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van, 

Thou  stalk  o’  carl-hemp  in  man ! 

And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne’er  wan 
A  lady  fair : 

Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Will  whyles  do  mair. 

But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme 

(I ’m  scant  o’  verse,  and  scant  o’  time), 

To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 
To  weans  and  wife, 

That ’s  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  Sister  Beckie, 

And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky ; 

I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chuckie, 

As  e’er  tread  clay  ! 


CAPTAIN  GROSE'S  PEREGRINATIONS.  399 

And  gratefully,  my  guiil  aul(l  cockle, 

I  ’in  yours  for  aye. 


ON  CAPTAIN  GROSE’S  PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH  SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING  TIIE  ANTIQUITIES  OF  THAT  KINGDOM. 

TTEAR,  Land  o’  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots, 
■“-  Frae  Maidenkirk  to  Johnny  Groat’s ; 

If  there ’s  a  hole  in  a’  your  coats, 

I  rede  you  tent  it : 

A  chiel’s  amang  you  taking  notes, 

And,  faith,  he  ’ll  prent  it. 

If  in  your  bounds  ye  chance  to  light 
Upon  a  fine,  fat,  fodgel  wight, 

O’  stature  short,  but  genius  bright, 

That’s  he,  mark  weel  — 

And  wow  !  he  has  an  unco  slight 
O’  cauk  and  keel. 

By  some  auld  houlet-haunted  biggin, 

Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin’, 

It ’s  ten  to  ane  ye  ’ll  find  him  snug  in 
Some  eldritch  part, 

\Yi’  deils,  they  say,  Lord  save ’s  !  colleaguin 
At  some  black  art. 

Ilk  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha’  or  cliaumer, 
Ye  gipsy-gang  that  deal  in  glamour, 


400  CAPTAIN  GROSE'S  PEREGRINATIONS. 

And  you  deep-read  in  hell’s  black  grammar, 
Warlocks  and  witches  ! 

Ye  ’ll  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer, 

Ye  midnight  bitches. 

It  ’s  tauld  he  was  a  sodger  bred, 

And  ane  wad  rather  fa’n  than  fled  ; 

But  now  he ’s  quat  the  spurtle  blade, 

And  dog-skin  wallet, 

And  ta’en  the  —  Antiquarian  trade, 

I  think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a  fouth  o’  auld  nick-nackets, 
llusty  airn  caps  and  jinglin’ jackets, 

Wad  haud  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets, 

A  towmont  guid ; 

And  parritch-pats,  and  auld  saut-backets, 
Before  the  Flood. 

Of  Eve’s  first  fire  he  has  a  cinder  ; 

Auld  Tubalcain’s  fire-shool  and  fender; 
That  which  distinguished  the  gender 
O’  Balaam’s  ass  ; 

A  broomstick  o’  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Weel  shod  wi’  brass. 

Forbye,  he  ’ll  shape  you  aff,  fu’  gleg, 

The  cut  of  Adam’s  philabeg ; 

The  knife  that  nicket  Abel’s  craig, 

He  ’ll  prove  you  fully, 

It  was  a  faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  lang-kail  gully. 


KEN  YE  OUGHT  O'  CAPTAIN  GROSE ?  401 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee, 

(For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  lie,) 

Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 
Guid  fellows  wi’  him ; 

And  port,  O  port !  shine  thou  a  wee, 

And  then  ye  ’ll  see  him  ! 

Now,  by  the  powers  o’  verse  and  prose  ! 

Thou  art  a  dainty  chiel,  O  Grose  !  — 
Whae’er  o’  thee  shall  ill  suppose, 

They  sair  misea’  thee  ; 

T ’d  take  the  rascal  by  the  nose, 

Wad  say,  Shame  fa’  thee. 

— ♦ — 

EPITAPH  OH  CAPTAIN  GROSE,  THE  CELE¬ 
BRATED  ANTIQUARY. 

npiIE  Devil  got  notice  that  Grose  was  a-dying, 
So  whip  !  at  the  summons,  old  Satan  came 
flying ; 

But  when  he  approached  where  poor  Francis  lay 
moaning. 

And  saw  each  bedpost  with  its  burden  a-groaning, 

Astonished,  confounded,  cried  Satan  :  “  By - , 

I  ’ll  want  ’im,  ere  I  take  such  a  damnable  load.” 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ENVELOPE,  ENCLOSING  A 
LETTER  TO  CAPTAIN  GROSE. 

TT^EN  ye  ought  o’  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo  and  ago, 


402  KEN  YE  OUGHT  O'  CAPTAIN  GROSE? 


If  he ’s  amang  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  to  Abra’m’s  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo  and  ago ; 

Or  hauding  Sarah  by  the  wame  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  south,  or  is  he  north  ? 

Igo  and  ago  ; 

Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highlan’  bodies  ? 

Igo  and  ago, 

And  eaten  like  a  wether  haggis  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Where’er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him, 
Igo  and  ago  ; 

As  for  the  deil,  he  daurna  steer  him, 
Iram,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  the  enclosed  letter, 
Igo  and  ago, 

Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor, 
Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  hae  auld  stanes  in  store, 

Igo  and  ago, 

The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore, 

Tram,  coram,  dago. 


LADDIES  BY  THE  BANKS  O'  NIT/I.  403 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 

Igo  and  ago, 

The  coins  o’  Satan’s  coronation  ! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


THE  LADDIES  BY  THE  BANKS  O’  N1TH. 

Tune  —  TJp  and  waur  them  a\ 

fJ^HE  laddies  by  the  banks  o’  Nitli 

Wad  trust  his  Grace  wi’  a’,  Jamie, 

But  he  ’ll  sair  them  as  he  sair’d  the  kins:  — 
Turn  tail  and  rin  awa’,  Jamie. 

Up  and  waur  them  a’,  Jamie, 

Up  and  waur  them  a’ ; 

The  Johnstons  hae  the  guidin’  o’ ’t, 

Ye  turn-coat  Whigs,  awa’ ! 

The  day  he  stude  his  country’s  friend, 

Or  gied  her  faes  a  claw,  Jamie, 

Or  frae  puir  man  a  blessin’  wan, 

That  day  the  Duke  ne’er  saw,  Jamie. 

But  wha  is  he,  his  country’s  boast  ? 

Like  him  there  is  na  twa,  Jamie  ; 

There ’s  no  a  callant  tents  the  kye, 

But  kens  o’  Westerha’,  Jamie. 

To  end  the  wark,  here ’s  Whistlebirck, 

Lang  may  his  whistle  blaw,  Jamie ; 

And  Maxwell  true  o’  sterling  blue, 

And  we  ’ll  be  Johnstons  a’,  Jamie. 


404 


TEE  FIVE  CARLINES 

» 


THE  FIVE  CARLTNES. 

^PHEKE  were  five  earlines  in  the  south, 
They  fell  upon  a  scheme, 

To  send  a  lad  to  Lon’on  town, 

To  bring  them  tidings  hame. 

Nor  onlv  brino;  them  tidings  hame, 

But  do  their  errands  there, 

And  aiblins  gowd  and  honour  baitb 
i\ Tight  be  that  laddie’s  share. 

There  was  Maggy  by  the  banks  o’  Nith, 

A  dame  wi’  pride  eneugh, 

And  Marjory  o’  the  Monie  Lochs, 

A  carline  auld  and  teu^li. 

And  Blinking  Bess  o’  Annandale, 

That  dwelt  near  Solwayside, 

And  Whisky  Jean,  that  took  her  gill, 

In  Galloway  sae  wide. 

And  Black  Joan,  frae  Crichton  Peel, 

O’  gipsy  kith  and  kin  — 

Five  wighter  carlines  warna  foun’ 

The  south  countra  within. 

To  send  a  lad  to  Lon’on  town, 

They  met  upon  a  day, 

And  monie  a  knight  and  monie  a  laird 
Their  errand  fain  would  gae. 


THE  FIVE  CARLINES. 

O  monie  a  knight  and  monie  a  laird 
This  errand  fain  would  gae  ? 

o  t 

But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please, 

O  ne’er  a  ane  but  twae. 

The  first  he  was  a  belted  knight, 

o  7 

Bred  o’  a  Border  clan, 

And  he  wad  gae  to  Lon’on  town, 

Might  nae  man  him  withstan’. 

And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel, 

And  meikle  he  wad  say, 

And  ilka  ane  at  Lon’on  court 
Would  bid  to  him  guid-day. 

Then  next  came  in  a  sodger  youth, 

And  spak  wi’  modest  grace, 

And  he  wad  gae  to  Lon’on  town, 

If  sae  their  pleasure  was. 

He  wadna  hecht  them  courtly  gifts, 

Nor  meikle  speech  pretend, 

But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart 
Wad  ne’er  desert  a  friend. 

Now,  wham  to  choose,  and  wham  refuse, 
At  strife  tliir  carlines  fell  ; 

For  some  had  gentle  folks  to  please, 

And  some  wad  please  themsel’. 

Then  out  spak  mim-mou’ed  Meg  o’  Nith, 
And  she  spak  up  wi’  pride, 


405 


406 


THE  FIVE  CARLINES. 


And  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth, 
Whatever  might  betide. 

O 


For  the  auld  guidman  o’  Lon’on  court 
She  didna  care  a  pin ; 

But  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth 
To  greet  his  eldest  son. 


Then  up  sprang  Bess  o’  Annandale, 

And  a  deadly  aith  she ’s  ta’en, 

That  she  wad  vote  the  Border  knight. 
Though  she  should  vote  her  lane. 

For  far-aff  fowls  hae  feathers  fair, 

And  fools  o’  change  are  fain  ; 

But  I  hae  tried  the  Border  knight. 

And  I  ’ll  try  him  yet  again. 

Says  Black  Joan  frae  Crichton  Peel, 

A  carline  stoor  and  grim, 

“  The  auld  guidman,  and  the  young  guidman, 
For  me  may  sink  or  swim. 

“  For  fools  will  freit  o’  right  or  wrano\ 

O  O7 

While  knaves  laugh  them  to  scorn  ; 

But  the  sodger’s  friends  hae  blawn  the  best, 
So  he  shall  bear  the  horn.” 

Then  Whisky  Jean  spak  owre  her  drink, 

“  Ye  weel  ken,  ki miners  a’, 

The  auld  guidman  o’  Lon’on  court 
His  back ’s  been  at  the  wa’ ; 


THE  BLUE-EYED  LASSIE .  407 

M  And  monie  a  friend  that  kissed  his  cup 
Is  now  a  fremit  wight : 

But  it ’s  ne’er  be  said  o’  Whisky  Jean  — 

I  ’ll  send  the  Border  knight.” 

Then  slow  raise  Marjory  o’  the  Lochs, 

And  wrinkled  was  her  brow, 

Iler  ancient  weed  was  russet  gray, 

Her  auld  Scots  bluid  was  true  ; 

“  There ’s  some  great  folks  set  light  by  me  — 
I  set  as  light  by  them  ; 

But  I  will  send  to  Lon’on  town 
Wham  I  like  best  at  hame. 

“  Sae  how  this  weighty  plea  may  end 
Nae  mortal  wight  can  tell : 

God  grant  the  king  and  ilka  man 
May  look  weel  to  himsel'.” 

i 

— • — 

THE  BLUE-EYED  LASSIE. 

F  GAED  a  waefu’  gate  yestreen, 

^  A  gate,  I  fear,  I  ’ll  dearly  rue ; 

I  gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o’  bonny  blue. 

’T  was  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright, 

Her  lips  like  roses  wat  wi’  dew, 

Her  heavin'!;  bosom,  lily-white  — 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonny  blue. 


408  WHEN  FIRST  I  SAW. 

n 

Slie  talked,  she  smiled,  my  heart  she  wiled  ; 

She  charmed  my  soul  —  I  wist  na  how  ; 
And  aye  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 
Cam  fra  her  een  sae  bonny  blue. 

But,  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed  ; 

She  ’ll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow  ; 

Should  she  refuse,  I  ’ll  lay  my  dead 
To  her  twa  een  sae  bonny  blue. 

— ♦ — 

SONG. 

Air  —  Maggy  Lauder. 

XT^IIEN  first  I  saw  fair  Jeanie’s  face, 

*  *  I  couldna  tell  what  ailed  me, 

My  heart  went  fluttering  pit-a-pat, 

My  een  they  almost  failed  me. 

She ’s  aye  sae  neat,  sae  trim,  sae  tight, 

All  grace  does  round  her  hover, 

Ae  look  deprived  me  o’  my  heart, 

And  I  became  a  lover. 

She ’s  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  sae  gay, 

She ’s  aye  so  blithe  and  cheerie  ; 

She ’s  aye  sae  bonny,  blithe,  and  gay, 
O  gin  I  were  her  dearie ! 

Had  I  Dundas’s  whole  estate, 

Or  Hopetoun’s  wealth  to  shine  in  ; 

Did  warlike  laurels  crown  my  brow, 

Or  humbler  bays  entwining  ; 

I ’d  lay  them  a’  at  Jeanie’s  feet. 

Could  I  but  hope  to  move  her, 


SKETCH.  — NEW-YEAR'S  DAY  [1790 J.  409 

And  prouder  than  a  belted  knight, 

I ’d  be  my  Jeanie’s  lover. 

She ’s  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  sae  gav.  etc. 

But  sair  I  fear  some  happier  swain 
Has  gained  sweet  Jeanie’s  favour  : 

If  so,  may  every  bliss  be  hers, 

Though  I  maun  never  have  her, 

But  gang  she  east,  or  gang  she  west, 

’Twixt  Forth  and  Tweed  all  over, 

While  men  have  eyes,  or  ears,  or  taste, 

She  ’ll  always  find  a  lover. 

She’s  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  sae  gay,  etc. 

— » — 

SKETCH.— NEW-YEAR’S  DAY  [1790] 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

fTMIIS  day,  Time  winds  the  exhausted  chain, 
To  run  the  twelvemonth’s  length  again  • 

I  see  the  old,  bald-pated  fellow, 

With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 

Adjust  the  unimpaired  machine, 

To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir, 

In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer; 

Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press, 

Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 

Will  you  (the  Major ’s  with  the  hounds  ; 

The  happy  tenants  share  his  roun  Is  ; 

Coila ’s  fair  Rachel’s  care  to-day, 


410  SKETCH.  — NEW-YEAR'S  DAY  [1790]. 


And  blooming  Keith ’s  engaged  with  Gray) 
From  housewife  cares  a  minute  borrow  — 
That  grandchild’s  cap  will  do  to-morrow  -  • 
And  join  with  me  a  moralising, 

This  day ’s  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver  ? 

“  Another  year  is  gone  for  ever.” 

And  what  is  this  day’s  strong  suggestion  ? 

“  The  passing  moment ’s  all  we  rest  on !  ” 
Rest  on  —  for  what  ?  what  do  we  here  ? 

Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 

Will  Time,  amused  with  proverbed  lore, 

And  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 

A  few  days  may  —  a  few  years  must  — 
Repose  us  in  the  silent  dust. 

Then  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss  ? 

Yes  —  all  such  reasonings  are  amiss  ! 

The  voice  of  Nature  loudly  cries, 

And  many  a  message  from  the  skies, 

That  something  in  us  never  dies : 

That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state, 

Hang  matters  of  eternal  weight : 

That  future  life  in  worlds  unknown 
Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone  ; 

Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright, 

Or  dark  as  Misery’s  woeful  night. 

Since,  then,  my  honoured,  first  of  friends, 

On  this  poor  being  all  depends, 

Let  us  the  important  now  employ, 

And  live  as  those  who  never  die. 

Though  you,  with  days  and  honours  crowned 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round 


PROLOGUE  FOR  NEW-YEAR'S  EVE.  411 

( A  sight  Life’s  sorrows  to  repulse, 

A  sight  pale  Envy  to  convulse), 

Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard  ; 

Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 

— ♦ — 

PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE  THEATRE,  DUMFRIES,  ON  NEW-YEAR’S 
DAY  EVENING  [1790]. 

"VT O  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great  city 
That  queens  it  o’er  our  taste  —  the  more ’s  the 
pity : 

Though,  by  the  by,  abroad  why  will  you  roam  ? 
Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at  home. 
But  not  for  panegyric  I  appear, 

I  come  to  wish  you  all  a  good  New  Year ! 

Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  before  ye, 

Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story : 

The  sage  crave  ancient  coughed,  and  bade  me 

O  D  O' 

sav : 

“  You  ’re  one  year  older  this  important  day.” 

If  wiser,  too  —  he  hinted  some  suggestion, 

But ’t  would  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask  the  ques¬ 
tion  ; 

And  with  a  wonld-be  roguish  leer  and  wink, 

He  bade  me  on  you  press  this  one  word  —  “  think  !  ” 

Ye  sprightly  youths,  quite  flushed  with  hope  and 
spirit, 

"Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of  merit. 
To  you  the  dotard  has  a  deal  to  say, 


412  MY  LOVELY  NANCY. 

In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way. 

lie  bids  you  mind,  amid  your  thoughtless  rattle, 

That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle ; 

That  though  some  by  the  skirt  may  try  to  snatch 
him, 

Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him  ; 

That  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbearing, 

You  may  do  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  though  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair, 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven’s  peculiar  care  ! 

To  you  old  Bald-pate  smooths  his  wrinkled  brow, 
And  humbly  begs  you  ’ll  mind  the  important  Now  ! 
To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your  leave, 

And  offers  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 

For  our  sincere,  though  haply  weak  endeavours, 
With  grateful  pride  we  own  your  many  favours ; 
And  howsoe’er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it, 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel  it. 

— « — 

MY  LOVELY  NANCY. 

Tune  —  The  Quaker's  Wife, 

f  piIINE  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 

Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy ; 

Every  pulse  along  my  veins, 

Every  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart, 

There  to  throb  and  languish : 

Though  despair  had  wrung  its  core. 

That  would  heal  its  anguish. 


PROLOGUE  FOR  MR.  SUTHERLAND  413 

Take  away  those  rosy  lips, 

Rich  with  balmy  treasure  ; 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love, 

Lest  I  die  with  pleasure. 

What  is  life  when  wanting  love  ? 

Right  without  a  morning : 

O  C5 

Love ’s  the  cloudless  summer  sun, 

Nature  gay  adorning. 


PROLOGUE  FOR  MR.  SUTHERLAND’S  BENEFIT- 
NfGHT,  DUMFRIES. 


HAT  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o’  Lon’on, 
IIow  this  new  play  and  that  new  sang  is 


coinin’  ? 

Why  is  outlandish  stuff  sae  meikle  courted  ? 

Does  nonsense  mend,  like  whisky,  when  imported  ? 
Is  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for  fame, 

Will  try  to  gie  us  songs  and  plays  at  hame  ? 

For  comedy  abroad  he  needna  toil ; 

A  fool  and  knave  are  plants  of  every  soil. 

Nor  need  he  hunt  as  far  as  Rome  and  Greece 
To  gather  matter  for  a  serious  piece : 

There ’s  themes  enough  in  Caledonian  story, 
Would  shew  the  tragic  Muse  in  a’  her  glory. 


Is  there  no  daring  bard  will  rise,  and  tell 
IIow  glorious  Wallace  stood,  how  hapless  fell  ? 
Where  are  the  Muses  fled  that  could  produce 
A  drama  Avorthv  o’  the  name  o’  Bruce  ? 

VOL.  II.  5 


414  PROLOGUE  FOR  MR.  SUTHERLAND. 


IIow  here,  even  here,  he  first  unsheathed  the 
sword 

’Gainst  mighty  England  and  her  guilty  lord  ; 

And  after  monie  a  bloody,  deathless  doing:, 
Wrenched  his  dear  country  from  the  jaws  of  ruin? 
O  for  a  Shakspeare  or  an  Otway  scene, 

To  draw  the  lovely,  hapless  Scottish  Queen  ! 

Vain  all  th’  omnipotence  of  female  charms 
’Gainst  headlong,  ruthless,  mad  rebellion’s  arms 
She  fell,  but  fell  with  spirit  truly  Roman, 

To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a  rival  woman  : 

A  woman  —  though  the  phrase  may  seem  uncivil — 
As  able  and  as  cruel  as  the  devil ! 

One  Douglas  lives  in  Home’s  immortal  page, 

But  Douglases  were  heroes  every  age : 

And  though  your  fathers,  prodigal  of  life, 

A  Douglas  followed  to  the  martial  strife, 

Perhaps  if  bowls  row  right,  and  Right  succeeds, 
Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a  Douglas  leads  ! 

As  ye  hae  generous  done,  if  a’  the  land 
Would  take  the  Muses’  servants  by  the  hand  ; 

Not  only  hear,  but  patronise,  befriend  them, 

And  where  ye  justly  can  commend,  commend  them; 
And  aiblins  when  they  winna  stand  the  test, 

Wink  hard,  and  say  the  folks  hae  done  their 
best ! 

W  ould  a’  the  land  do  this,  then  I  ’ll  be  caution 
Ye  ’ll  soon  hae  poets  o’  the  Scottish  nation, 

Will  gar  Fame  blaw  until  her  trumpet  crack, 

And  warsle  Time,  and  lay  him  on  his  back  ! 

For  us  and  for  our  stage  should  ony  spier, 

“  Wha ’s  aught  tliae  chiels  maks  a’  this  bustle 
here  ?  ” 


PROLOGUE  FOR  MR.  SUTHERLAND.  415 

My  best  leg  foremost,  I  ’ll  set  up  my  brow,  — 

We  have  the  honour  to  belong  to  you  ! 

We  ’re  your  ain  bairns,  e’en  guide  us  as  ye  like, 
But  like  guid  mithers,  shore  before  you  strike. 

And  gratefu’  still  I  hope  ye  ’ll  ever  find  us, 

For  a’  the  patronage  and  meikle  kindness 
We ’ve  got  frae  a’  professions,  sets,  and  ranks  : 

God  help  us!  we’re  but  poor  —  ye’se  get  but 
thanks. 


CONTRIBUTIONS 

TO  THE  THIRD  VOLUME  OF  JOHNSON’S  MUSEUM 

- ♦— 

TIBBIE  DUNBAR. 

Tune  —  Johnny  ill’  Gill. 

WILT  thou  go  wi’  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 
0  wilt  thou  go  wi’  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse  or  be  drawn  in  a  car, 
Or  walk  by  my  side,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

I  carena  thy  daddie,  his  lands  and  his  money, 

I  carena  thy  kin,  sae  high  and  sae  lordly ; 

But  say  thou  wilt  hae  me,  for  better  for  waur, 

And  come  in  thy  coatie,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar ! 


THE  GARDENER  WI’  HIS  PAIDLE. 

Tune —  The  Gardeners ’  March. 

WHEN  rosy  Morn  comes  in  wi’  showers, 
To  deck  her  gay  green  birken  bowel’s, 
Then  busy,  busy  are  his  hours, 

The  gardener  wi’  his  paidle. 


HIGHLAND  HARRY. 


417 

The  crystal  waters  gently  fa’, 

The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a’, 

The  scented  breezes  round  him  blaw, 

The  gardener  wi’  his  paidle. 

When  purple  Morning  starts  the  hare, 

To  steal  upon  her  early  fare, 

Then  through  the  dews  he  maun  repair, 

The  gardener  wi’  his  paidle. 

When  Day,  expiring  in  the  west, 

The  curtain  draws  of  Nature’s  rest, 
lie  flies  to  her  arms  he  lo’es  the  best, 

The  gardener  wi’  his  paidle. 

— ♦ — 


HIGHLAND  HARRY. 

MVIan7  was  a  gallant  gay, 

Fu’  stately  strode  he  on  the  plain  : 
But  now  he ’s  banished  far  away  ; 

I  ’ll  never  see  him  back  agrain. 

o 

O  for  him  back  a^ain  ! 

O  for  him  back  agcain  ! 

I  wad  gie  a’  Knockhaspie’s  land 
For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

When  a’  the  lave  gae  to  their  bed, 

I  wander  dowie  up  the  glen ; 

I  set  me  down  and  greet  my  fill, 

And  aye  I  wish  him  back  again. 


418  BONNY  ANN. 

O  were  some  villains  hangit  high, 
And  ilka  body  had  their  ain  ! 
Then  I  might  see  the  joyfu’  sight, 
My  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


BONNY  ANN. 

Air —  Ye  Gallants  Bright. 

ATE  gallants  bright,  I  rede  ye  right, 

^  Beware  o’  bonny  Ann  ; 

Her  comely  face  sae  fu’  o’  grace, 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 

Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night, 
Her  skin  is  like  the  swan  ; 

Sae  jimply  laced  her  genty  waist, 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  Grace,  and  Love,  attendant  move. 
And  Pleasure  leads  the  van  ; 

In  a’  their  charms  and  conquering  arms 
They  wait  on  bonny  Ann. 

The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  hands, 
But  love  enslaves  the  man  ; 

Ye  gallants  braw,  I  rede  you  a’, 

Beware  o’  bonny  Ann  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF-MU  JR.  419 


JOHN  ANDERSON. 


Tone  —  John  Anderson  my  Jo. 

TOHN  ANDERSON  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonny  brow  was  brent ; 

But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 


John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 
We’ve  had  wi’  ane  anither  : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
But  hand  in  hand  we  ’ll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  loot, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF-MU1R. 


Tune —  Cameronian  Rant. 


Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-muir, 

*i  1 

And  did  the  battle  see,  man  ?  ” 


420  THE  BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF- MUIR. 

“  I  saw  the  battle,  sair  and  tough, 

And  reekin’  red  ran  monie  a  slieugh  ; 

My  heart,  for  fear,  gaed  sough  for  sough, 

To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  cluds, 

O’  clans  frae  woods,  in  tartan  duds, 

Wha  glaumed  at  kingdoms  three,  man. 

“  The  red-coat  lads,  wi’  black  cockades, 

To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man ; 

They  rushed  and  pushed,  and  bluid  outgushed, 
And  monie  a  bouk  did  fa’,  man  : 

The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 

I  wat  they  glanced  for  twenty  miles  : 

They  hacked  and  hashed,  while  broadswords 
clashed, 

And  through  they  dashed,  and  hewed,  and 
smashed, 

Till  fey  men  died  awa’,  man. 

“  But  had  you  seen  the  philabegs, 

And  skvrin  tartan  trews,  man, 

When  in  the  teeth  they  dared  our  Whigs, 

And  covenant  true-blues,  man  ; 

In  lines  extended  lang  and  large, 

When  bayonets  opposed  the  targe, 

And  thousands  hastened  to  the  charge, 

Wi’  Highland  wrath  they  frae  the  sheath 
Drew  blades  o’  death,  till,  out  o’  breath, 

They  fled  like  frighted  doos,  man.” 

,k  O  how  deil,  Tam,  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  North,  man  ; 

I  saw  myself,  they  did  pursue 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF- M U IR. 

The  horsemen  back  to  Forth,  man  ; 

And  at  Dumblane,  in  my  ain  sight, 

They  took  the  brig  wi’  a’  their  might, 

And  straught  to  Stirling  winged  their  flight ; 
But,  cursed  lot !  the  gates  were  shut ; 

And  monie  a  huntit,  poor  red-coat, 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man  !  ” 

“  My  sister  Kate  cam  up  the  gate 
Wi’  crowdie  unto  me,  man  ; 

She  swore  she  saw  some  rebels  run 
Frae  Perth  unto  Dundee,  man  : 

Their  left-hand  general  had  nae  skill, 

The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good-will 
That  day  their  neibors’  blood  to  spill  ; 

For  fear,  by  foes,  that  they  should  lose 
Their  cogs  o’  brose  —  all  crying  woes  ; 

And  so  it  goes,  you  see,  man. 

“  They ’ve  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen 
Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man  ; 

I  feai  my  Lord  Panmure  is  slain, 

Or  fallen  in  Whiggish  hands,  man. 

Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  fight, 

Some  fell  for  wrung  and  some  for  right , 

But  monie  bade  the  world  guid-night ; 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  mell, 

By  red  claymores,  and  muskets’  knell, 

Wi’  dying  yell,  the  Tories  fell, 

And  Whigs  to  hell  did  flee,  man.” 


421 


422  BLOOMING  NELLY. 

BLOOMING  NELLY. 

Tune  —  On  a  Bank  of  Flowers. 

TAN  a  bank  ot‘  flowers,  in  a  summer-day, 
For  summer  lightly  drest, 

The  youthful,  blooming  Nelly  lay, 

With  love  and  sleep  opprest ; 

When  Willie,  wandering  through  the  wood, 
Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  sued, 

He  gazed,  he  wished,  he  feared,  he  blushed. 
And  trembled  where  he  stood. 

Her  closed  eyes  like  weapons  sheathed, 
Were  sealed  in  soft  repose  ; 

Her  lip,  still  as  she  fragrant  breathed, 

It  richer  dyed  the  rose. 

The  springing  lilies  sweetly  prest, 

Wild-wanton,  kissed  her  rival  breast ; 

He  gazed,  he  wished,  he  feared,  he  blushed. 
His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 

Her  robes  light  waving  in  the  breeze 
Her  tender  limbs  embrace  ; 

Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease, 

All  harmony  and  grace  : 

Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll, 

A  faltering,  ardent  kiss  he  stole  ; 

lie  gazed,  he  wished,  he  feared,  he  blushed, 
And  sighed  his  very  soul. 

As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake 
On  fear-inspired  wings, 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.  423 


So  Nelly  starting,  half  awake, 

Away  affrighted  springs  : 

But  Willie  followed,  as  he  should  ; 

He  overtook  her  in  the  wood  ; 

He  vowed,  he  prayed,  he  found  the  maid 
Forgiving  all  and  good. 

C*  O  o 

— ♦ — 

MY  HEART’S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

Tune — Faille  na  Miosg. 

IV/TY  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 
here ; 

My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer ; 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth  ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 

The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  witli 
snow  ; 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below  ; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods  ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 

My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here  ; 
My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer  ; 
A-ehasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands  wherever  1  go. 


424  MY  HEART  IS  A-BREAKING. 

THE  BANKS  OF  NITH. 

Tune — Robie  donna  Gorach 

^PIIE  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea, 
Where  royal  cities  stately  stand  ; 

But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith,  to  me, 

Where  Cummins  ance  had  hi<di  command 
When  shall  I  see  that  honoured  land, 

That  winding  stream  I  love  so  dear  ! 

Must  wayward  Fortune’s  adverse  hand 

Forever,  ever  keep  me  here  ? 

✓ 

How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales, 

Where  spreading  hawthorns  gayly  bloom  ! 
IIow  sweetly  wind  thy  sloping  dales, 

Where  lambkins  wanton  through  the  broom 
Though  wandering,  now,  must  be  my  doom, 
Far  from  thy  bonny  banks  and  braes, 

May  there  my  latest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days  ! 


MY  HEART  IS  A-BREAKING,  DEAR  TIT  TIE  l 

IVfY  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  tittie  ! 

Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len’, 

To  anger  them  a’  is  a  pity, 

But  what  will  I  do  wi’  Tam  Glen  ? 

I  ’in  thinking  wi’  sic  a  braw  fellow 
In  poortith  I  might  make  a  fen’ ; 


MY  HEART  IS  a-BREAKING. 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow, 

If  I  maunna  marry  Tam  Glen  ? 

There ’s  Lowrie,  the  Laird  o’  Drumeller, 
Guid-day  to  you,  brute !  he  comes  ben  ; 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o’  his  siller, 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me, 

And  bids  me  beware  o’  young  men  ; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me, 

But  wha  can  think  sae  o’  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I  'll  forsake  him, 
lie  ’ll  «ie  me  <niid  hunder  marks  ten : 

But  if  it’s  ordained  I  maun  take  linn, 

O  wha  will  I  get  but  Tam  Glen  ? 

Yestreen  at  the  valentines’  dealing, 

My  heart  to  my  mou’  gied  a  sten  ; 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 

And  thrice  it  was  written  —  Tam  Glen. 

The  last  Halloween  I  was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken  ; 

Ilis  likeness  cam’  up  the  house  staukin, 

And  the  very  gray  breeks  o’  Tam  Glen  ! 

Come  counsel,  dear  tittie  !  don’t  tarry  — 

I  ’ll  gie  you  my  bonny  black  hen, 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 

The  lad  I  lo’e  dearly  —  Tam  Glen. 


425 


426  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  STUART.  (?) 


ELEGY  ON  PEG  NICHOLSON, 

A  DEAD  M  ARE. 


T>EG  NICHOLSON  was  a  gpod  bay  mare, 
■*"  As  ever  trode  on  airn  ; 

But  now  she ’s  floating  down  the  Nith, 

And  past  the  mouth  o’  Cairn. 


Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 

And  rode  through  thick  and  thin  ; 

But  now  she ’s  floating  down  the  Nith, 
And  wanting  even  the  skin. 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare, 

And  ance  she  bore  a  priest ; 

But  now  she ’s  floating  down  the  Nith, 

For  Solway  fish  a  feast. 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare, 

And  the  priest  he  rode  her  sair  ; 

And  much  oppressed  and  bruised  she  was, 
As  priest-rid  cattle  are.  —  etc.,  etc. 


WRITTEN  TO  A  GENTLEMAN  WHO  HAD  SENT 
THE  POET  A  NEWSPAPER, 

AND  OFFERED  TO  CONTINUE  IT  FREE  OF  EXPENSE. 

T7"IND  Sir,  I’ve  read  your  paper  through, 
And,  faith,  to  me ’t  was  really  new  ! 

IIow  guessed  ye,  sir,  what  maist  I  wanted  ? 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  STUART.  (?)  427 

This  monie  a  day  I ’ve  graned  and  gaunted. 

To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin’, 

Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutch  were  doin’ ; 

That  vile  doup-skelper,  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off; 

Or  how  the  collieshangie  works 
Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks  ; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt, 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt ; 

If  Denmark,  anybody  spak  o’ ’t  ; 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o’ ’t : 

IIow  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were  hingin’ ; 
How  libbet  Italy  was  singin’ : 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss, 

Were  say  in’  or  takin’  aught  amiss. 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame, 

In  Britain’s  court,  kept  up  the  game  ; 

How  Royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  o’er  him  l 
W  as  managing  St.  Stephen’s  quorum  ; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livin’, 

Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in  ; 

How  Daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin’ ; 

If  Warren  Hastings’  neck  was  yeukin’ : 

How  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  raxed, 

Or  if  bare - yet  were  taxed  ; 

The  news  o’  princes,  dukes,  and  earls, 

Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera-girls  ; 

If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  Wales, 

Was  threshin’  still  at  hizzies’  tails  ; 

Or  if  he  was  crown  ou<ditlins  douser, 

And  no  a  perfect  kintra  cooser. 

A’  this  and  mair  I  never  heard  of, 

And  but  for  you  I  might  despaired  of. 


428  SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM. 

So  gratefu’,  back  your  news  I  send  you, 

And  pray,  a’  guid  things  may  attend  you  ! 

— ♦ — 

SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  MK.  GRAHAM  OF  FINTRY. 

ENTRY,  my  stay  in  worldly  strife, 

*  Friend  o’  my  Muse,  friend  o’  my  life, 

Are  ye  as  idle ’s  I  am  ? 

Come  then,  wi’  uncouth,  kintra  fleg, 

O’er  Pegasus  I  ’ll  Ring  my  leg, 

And  ye  shall  see  me  try  him. 

I  ’ll  sing  the  zeal  Drumlanrig  bears, 

Who  left  the  all-important  cares 

Of  princes  and  their  darlings ; 

And,  bent  on  winning  borough  towns, 

Came  shaking  hands  wi’  wabster  loons, 

And  kissing  barefit  carlins. 

Combustion  through  our  boroughs  rode, 
Whistling  his  roaring  pack  abroad, 

Of  mad,  unmuzzled  lions  ; 

As  Queensberry  buff  and  blue  unfurled, 

And  Westerha’  and  Hopetoun  hurled 
To  every  Whig  defiance. 

But  Queensberry,  cautious,  left  the  war  ; 

The  unmannered  dust  might  soil  his  star, 
Besides,  he  hated  bleeding ; 

But  left  behind  him  heroes  bright, 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM.  429 

Heroes  in  Caesarean  fight 

Or  Ciceronian  pleading. 

O  for  a  throat  like  huge  Mons-Meg, 

To  muster  o’er  each  ardent  Whig 
Beneath  Druinlanrig’s  banners  ; 

Heroes  and  heroines  commix 
All  in  the  field  of  politics, 

To  win  immortal  honours. 

M’Murdo  and  his  lovely  spouse 

(The  enamoured  laurels  kiss  her  brows) 

Led  on  the  loves  and  graces  ; 

She  won  each  gaping  burgess’  heart, 

While  he,  all-conquering,  played  his  part, 

Anion"  their  wives  and  lasses. 

© 

Craigdarroch  led  a  light-armed  corps  ; 

Tropes,  metaphors,  and  figures  pour, 

Like  Hecla  streaming  thunder  ; 
Glenriddel,  skilled  in  rusty  coins, 

Blew  up  each  Tory’s  dark  designs, 

And  bared  the  treason  under. 

In  either  wing  two  champions  fought ; 
Redoubted  Staig,  who  set  at  nought 
The  wildest  savage  Tory, 

And  Welsh,  who  ne’er  yet  flinched  his  ground, 
High  waved  his  magnum  bonum  round 
With  Cyclopean  fury. 

Miller  brought  up  the  artillery  ranks, 

The  many-pounders  of  the  Banks, 

VOL.  II.  G 


430  SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAB  AM. 


Resistless  desolation  ; 

While  Maxwelton,  that  baron  bold, 

Mid  Lawson’s  port  intrenched  his  hold, 
And  threatened  worse  damnation. 

To  these,  what  Tory  hosts  opposed, 

With  these,  what  Tory  warriors  closed, 
Surpasses  my  descriving  : 

Squadrons  extended  long  and  large, 

With  furious  speed  rushed  to  the  charge, 
Like  ramno;  devils  driving. 

O  O  O 

What  verse  can  sing,  what  prose  narrate, 
The  butcher  deeds  of  bloody  fate 
Amid  this  mighty  tulzie  ? 

Grim  Horror  grinned  ;  pale  Terror  roared, 
As  Murtlier  at  his  thrapple  shored ; 

And  hell  mixt  in  the  brulzie  ! 

As  Highland  crags,  by  thunder  cleft, 

When  lightnings  fire  the  stormy  lift, 

Hurl  down  wi’  crashing  rattle  ; 

As  flames  amang  a  hundred  woods  ; 

As  headlong  foam  a  hundred  floods  ; 

Such  is  the  rage  of  battle. 

The  stubborn  Tories  dare  to  die  ; 

As  soon  the  rooted  oaks  would  fly, 

Before  th’  approaching  fellers  ; 

The  Whigs  come  on  like  Ocean’s  roar, 
When  all  his  wintry  billows  pour, 

Against  the  Buchan  Bullers. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM.  431 

Lo,  from  the  shades  of  Death’s  deep  night, 
Departed  Whigs  enjoy  the  fight, 

And  think  on  former  daring  ! 

The  muffled  murtlierer  of  Charles 
The  Magna-Charta  flag  unfurls, 

All  deadly  gules  its  bearing. 

Nor  wanting  ghosts  of  Tory  fame ; 

Bold  Scrimgeour  follows  gallant  Grahame, 

Auld  Covenanters  shiver ; 

Forgive,  forgive,  much-wronged  Montrose  ! 

o  7  O  7  O 

While  death  and  hell  engulf  thy  foes, 

Thou  liv’st  on  high  lor  ever  ! 

Still  o’er  the  field  the  combat  burns  ; 

The  Tories,  Whigs,  give  way  by  turns, 

But  Fate  the  word  has  spoken  : 

For  woman’s  wit,  or  strength  of  man, 

Alas  !  can  do  but  what  they  can  — 

The  Tory  ranks  are  broken. 

« 

O  that  my  een  were  flowing  burns  ! 

My  voice  a  lioness  that  mourns 
Her  darling  cub’s  undoing  ! 

That  I  might  greet,  that  I  might  cry, 

While  Tories  fall,  while  Tories  fly, 

From  furious  Whigs  pursuing  ! 

What  Whig  but  wails  the  good  Sir  James  — 
Dear  to  his  country  by  the  names 
Friend,  Patron,  Benefactor  ? 

Not  Pulteney’s  wealth  can  Pulteney  save. 


432  SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAUAM. 

And  Hopetoun  falls,  the  generous,  brave, 
And  Stuart  bold  as  Hector  ! 

Thou,  Pitt,  shall  rue  this  overthrow, 

And  Thurlow  growl  a  curse  of  wo, 

And  Melville  melt  in  wailing  ! 

Now  Fox  and  Sheridan,  rejoice  ! 

And  Burke  shall  sing  :  “  O  prince,  arise  ! 
Thy  power  is  all-prevailing  !  ” 

For  your  poor  friend,  the  Bard  afar, 

He  hears,  and  only  hears  the  war, 

A  cool  spectator  purely  ;  * 

So  when  the  storm  the  forest  rends, 

The  robin  in  the  hedge  descends, 

And  sober  chirps  securely. 


ADDITIONAL  VERSE  IN  CLOSEBURN  MS. 

Now  for  my  friends’  and  brothers’  sakes, 
And  for  my  native  Land  o’  Cakes, 

I  pray  with  holy  fire  — 

Lord,  send  a  rough-shod  troop  of  hell 
O’er  all  would  Scotland  buy  or  sell, 

And  grind  them  into  mire  ! 


ELEGY  ON  MATTHEW  HENDERSON.  433 

OX  CAPTAIN  MATTHEW  HENDERSON, 


V  GENTLEMAN  WHO  HELD  THE  PATENT  FOR  HIS 
HONOURS  IMMEDIATELY"  FROM  ALMIGHTY  GOD. 

Should  the  poor  be  flattered?  ”  —  Shakspeare 


But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 
For  Matthew’s  course  was  bright: 


His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 
A  matchless,  heavenly  light ! 


DEATH  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody  ! 


The  meikle  devil  wi’  a  woodie 
Ilaurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 
O’er  hurcfieon  hides, 

And  like  stockfish  come  o’er  his  studdie 
Wi’  thy  auld  sides  ! 

He ’s  gane  !  he ’s  gane  !  he ’s  frae  us  torn, 
The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  born  ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature’s  sel’  shall  mourn 
By  wood  and  wild, 

Where,  haply,  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled  ! 

Ye  hills  !  near  neibors  o’  the  starns, 

That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns  ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 

W  here  Echo  slumbers  ! 

Come  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairns, 
Mv  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 

Ye  hazelly  sliaws  and  briery  dens ! 


434  ELEGY  ON  MATTHEW  HENDERSON. 


Ye  burnies,  wimplin’  down  your  glens, 

Wi’  toddlin’  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin  ! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o’er  the  lea  ! 

Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see  ! 

Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bowers  ! 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o’  flowers  ! 

At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 

Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head, 

At  even,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

I’  tli’  rustling  gale, 

Ye  maukins  whiddin’  through  the  glade, 
Come  join  my  wail ! 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood  ! 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud  ! 

Ye  curlews  calling  through  a  clud  ! 

Ye  whistling'plover ! 

And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood  !  — 
He ’s  gane  for  ever  ! 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals  ! 

Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels  ! 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels 
Circling:  the  lake  ! 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Hair  for  his  sake  ! 


ELEGY  ON  MATTHEW  HENDERSON. 

Mourn,  clam’ring  craiks  at  close  o’  cla v , 
’Mang  fields  o’  flowering  clover  gay ! 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 
Frae  our  cauld  shore, 

Tell  tliae  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  clay 
Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bower, 

In  some  auld  tree  or  eldritch  tower, 
What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  glower 
Sets  up  her  horn, 

Wail  through  the  dreary  midnight  hour 
Till  waukrife  morn  ! 

O  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  ! 

Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains  : 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  wo  ? 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,  Spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear  : 

Thou,  Simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head, 

Thy  gay,  green,  flowery  tresses  shear 
For  him  that ’s  dead  ! 

Thou,  Autumn,  wi’  thy  yellow  hair, 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 

Thou,  Winter,  hurling  through  the  air 
The  roaring  blast, 


435 


436  ELEGY  ON  MATTHEW  HENDERSON. 

Wide  o’er  the  naked  world  declare 
The  worth  we ’ve  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  Sun,  great  source  of  light  ! 

Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night  ! 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn  ! 

For  through  your  orbs  he ’s  ta’en  his  flight, 
Ne’er  to  return. 

0  Henderson  !  the  man  —  the  brother  ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ? 

And  hast  thou  crossed  that  unknown  river, 
Life’s  dreary  bound  ? 

Like  tliee,  where  shall  I  find  another, 

The  world  around  ? 

Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs  ye  great, 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state  ! 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I  ’ll  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth, 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 
E’er  lay  in  earth  ! 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Stop,  passenger  !  —  my  story ’s  brief. 

And  truth  I  shall  relate,  man  ; 

I  tell  nae  common  tale  o’  grief  — 

For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spurned  at  Fortune’s  door,  man, 


ELEGY  ON  MATTHEW  HENDERSON.  437 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast  — 

For  Matthew  was  a  poor  man. 

If  thou  a  noble  sodger  art, 

That  passest  by  this  grave,  man, 

There  moulders  here  a  gallant  heart  — 

For  Matthew  was  a  brave  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways, 

Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man, 

Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise  — 
For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man. 

If  thou  at  Friendship’s  sacred  ca’ 

Wad  life  itself  resign,  man, 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa’  — 

For  Matthew  was  a  kind  man. 

If  thou  art  stanch  without  a  stain, 

Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man, 

This  was  a  kinsman  o’  thy  ain  — 

For  Matthew  was  a  true  man. 

If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  lire, 

And  ne’er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man, 

This  was  thy  billie,  dam,  and  sire  — 

For  Matthew  was  a  queer  man. 

If  ony  whiggish,  whingin*  sot, 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man, 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot  ! 

For  Matthew  was  a  rare  man. 


438 


TAM  O'  SHAN  TER. 


TAM  0’  SHANTER. 


A  TALK. 

“  Of  brownyis  and  of  bogilis  full  is  this  buke.” 

Gawin  Douglas. 

7TIEN  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 


'  ~  And  drouthy  neibors,  neibors  meet. 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 

And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate  ; 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 

And  gettin’  fou  and  unco  happy. 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 

That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 

Where  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o’  Shanter, 

As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 

(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne’er  a  town  surpasses 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 

O  Tam  !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 

As  ta’en  thy  ain  wife  Kate’s  advice  ! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 

A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum  ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober ; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi’  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 

That  every  naig  was  ca’d  a  shoe  on. 


'r  /fS  7  rf/'  7/'  ///s 

/  / 

'//?//  //  vV’//  ///  //  //s/S/S/Ss 


^/  /// 


Vs/////  7 


♦ 


TAM  O'  SHAN  TER. 


439 


Tlie  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring^fou  on  ; 

That  at  the  Lord’s  house,  even  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi’  Ivirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in  Doon, 
Or  catched  wi’  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway’s  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah.  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet, 

To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 

How  monie  lengthened  sage  advices, 
The’busband  frae  the  wife  desjhses  ! 

But  to  our  tale :  —  Ae  market-night, 

Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi’  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely  ; 

And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony  ; 

Tam  lo’ed  him  like  a  vera  brither  — 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegitlier  ' 

The  night  drave  on  wi’  sangs  and  clatter. 

And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better  ; 

The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 

Wi’  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  ; 

The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories, 

The  landlord’s  laugh  was  ready  chorus  ; 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle  — 

© 

Tam  didna  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 

E’en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy  ! 


440  TAM  O'  SHANTER. 

As  bees  flee  liame  wi’  lades  o’  treasure, 

The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi’  pleasme  : 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O’er  a’  the  ills  o’  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread,  — 

You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed  ; 

Or  like  the  snowfall  in  the  river,  — 

A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for  ever  , 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow’s  lovely  form, 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide  ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride  : 

That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  keystane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in 
As  ne’er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as ’t  wad  blawn  its  last , 

The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast  ; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed  ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellowed 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 

The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 

(A  better  never  lifted  leg,) 

Tam  skelpit  on  through  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire  ; 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o’er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet ; 


TAM  O'  SEAN  TER.  441 

Wliiles  glowering  round  wi’  prudent  cares, 

Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares  :  — 

© 

Ivirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 

Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored  ; 

And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 

Where  drunken  Charlie  brak ’s  neck-bane  ; 

And  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Where  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn  ; 

And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Where  Mungo’s  mither  hanged  liersel’. 

Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods  ; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  through  the  woods  ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 

When,  glimmering  through  the  groaning  trees, 
Ivirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze  ; 

Through  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn, 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  ! 

Wi’  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi’  usquebae,  we  ’ll  face  the  devil  !  — 

I’lie  swats  sae  reamed  in  Tammie’s  noddle, 

Fair  play,  he  cared  na  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonished, 

©©  © 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonished, 

She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 

And,  wow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance  ; 


442  TAM  O'  SHAN  TER. 

Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels. 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o’  beast ; 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ; 

He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a’,  did  dirk 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 

That  shawed  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses  ; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light : 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer’s  banes  in  gibbet  aims  ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee  unchristened  bairns  ; 

A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  raps, 

Wi’  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi’  bluid  red-rusted  ; 

Five  scimitars,  wi’  murder  crusted  ; 

A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 

A  knife,  a  father’s  throat  had  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  o’  life  bereft,  — 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft : 

Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’, 

Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu’ ! 

As  Tammie  glow’red,  amazed  and  curious, 

The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious  : 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 

They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit, 


TAM  O'  S  MAN  TER. 

Till  ilka  carline  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam  !  had  thae  been  queans, 
A’  plump  and  strappin’  in  their  teens ; 

Their  sarks,  instead  o’  creeshie  flannen, 

.  Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen  ! 
Tliir  breeks  o’  mine,  my  only  pair, 

That  ance  were  plush,  o’  guid  blue  hair, 

I  wad  hae  gi’en  them  off'  my  liurdies, 

For  ae  blink  o’  the  bonny  burdies  ! 

But  withered  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Bigwoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a  foal, 

Louping  and  flinging  on  a  cummoek, 

I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenned  what  was  what  fu’  brawlie 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenned  on  Carrick  shore ; 

For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perished  monie  a  bonny  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear.) 

Her  cutty-sark,  o’  Paisley  ham, 

That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 

In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 

Ah  !  little  kenned  thy  reverend  grannie 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 

AV  i’  twa  pund  Scots  (’t  was  a’  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o’  witches  ! 


443 


444  TAM  O'  SHAN  TER. 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour  ; 

Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power  ;  — 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  thing 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  strung),  •<» 

And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitched, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enriched  ; 

Even  Satan  glow’red  and  fidged  fu’  fain, 
And  hotched  and  blew  wi’  might  and  main  . 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 

Tam  tint  his  reason  a’  thegither, 

And  roars  out :  “  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  r  ” 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 

When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi’  angry  fyke, 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 

As  open  pussie’s  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When  “  Catch  the  thief !  ”  resounds  aloud  ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi’  monie  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam  !  ah,  Tam  !  thou  ’ll  get  thy  fairin’ » 
In  hell  they  ’ll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin’  ! 

■  In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  cornin’ ; 

Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu’  woman  ! 

Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  keystane  o’  the  brig  ; 
dhere  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss  ; 

A  running  stream  they  darena  cross ! 

Bur.  ere  the  keystane  she  could  make, 

The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 


ON  A  POSTHUMOUS  CHILD. 


445 


For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 

And  flew  at  Tara  wi’  furious  ettle,  — 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie’s  mettle  ! 

Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 

But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 

The  earline  claught  her  by  the  rump, 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o’  truth  shall  read, 

Ilk  man  and  mother’s  son  take  heed  i 
Whene’er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 

Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  ower  deal  .  — 
Remember  Tam  o’  Shanter’s  mare. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  POSTHUMOUS 

CHILD, 

BORN  UNDER  PECULIAR  CIRCUMSTANCES  OF  FAMILY 

DISTRESS. 

OWEET  floweret,  pledge  o’  meikle  love, 

^  And  ward  o’  monie  a  prayer, 

What  heart  o’  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair  ! 

November  hirples  o’er  the  lea 
Chill  on  thy  lovely  form  ; 

And  gane,  alas  !  the  sheltering  tree 
Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 

7 


VOL.  II. 


44G  ELEGY  ON  MISS  BURNET. 

May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour, 
And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 

Protect  thee  frae  the  driving;  shower. 
The  bitter  frost  and  snaw  ! 

May  He,  the  friend  of  wo  and  want, 
Who  heals  life’s  various  stounds, 

Protect  and  guard  the  moth er-p] art, 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds  ! 

But  Jate  she  flourished,  rooted  fast, 
Fail'  on  the  summer-morn  ; 

Now,  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 
Unsheltered  and  forlorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 
Unscathed  by  ruffian  hand, 

And  from  thee  many  a  parent  stem 
Arise  to  deck  our  land  ! 


♦ 


ELEGY  ON  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET  OF  MON- 


BODDO 


IFF  ne’er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize 


As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies ; 

Nor  envious  Death  so  triumphed  in  a  blow, 

As  that  which  laid  the  accomplished  Burnet  low. 

Thy  form  and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I  forget  ? 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set ! 


ELEGY  ON  MISS  BURNET .  447 

In  thee,  high  Heaven  above  was  truest  shewn, 

As  by  his  noblest  work  the  Godhead  best  is  known. 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer’s  pride,  ye  groves ; 

Thou  crystal  streamlet  with  thy  flowery  shore, 
Ye  woodland  choir  that  chant  your  idle  loves, 

Ye  cease  to  charm —  Eliza  is  no  more  ! 

Ye  heathy  wastes,  immixed  with  reedy  fens, 

Ye  mossy  streams,  with  sedge  and  rushes  stored, 
Yre  rugged  cliffs,  o’erhanging  dreary  glens, 

To  you  I  fly,  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

Princes,  whose  cumbrous  pride  was  all  their  worth, 
Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail, 

And  thou,  sweet  excellence !  forsake  our  earth, 
And  not  a  Muse  in  honest  grief  bewail  ? 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beauty’s  pride, 
And  virtue’s  light,  that  beams  beyond  the 
spheres  ; 

But,  like  the  sun  eclipsed  at  morning-tide, 

Thou  left’st  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears. 

The  parent’s  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee, 

That  heart  how  sunk,  a  prey  to  grief  and  care  1 
So  decked  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree  ; 

So  from  it  ravished,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


448 


LAMENT  OF  QUEEN  MARY. 


LAMENT  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS  ON  THE 
APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

XTOW  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 
On  every  blooming  tree, 

And  spreads  her  sheets  o’  daisies  white 
Out  o’er  the  grassy  lea : 

Now  Phoebus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 

And  glads  the  azure  skies  ; 

But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 
That  fast  in  durance  lies. 

Now  lav’rocks  wake  the  merry  morn, 

Aloft  on  dewy  wing  ; 

The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bower, 

Makes  woodland  echoes  rimr  : 

The  mavis  wild,  wi’  monie  a  note, 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest; 

In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

Wi’  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank, 

The  primrose  down  the  brae  ; 

The  hawthorn ’s  budding  in  the  <den. 

And  milkwhite  is  the  slae ; 

The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 
May  rove  their  sweets  amang ; 

But  I,  the  queen  of  a’  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  strang  ' 

I  was  the  queen  o’  bonny  France, 

Where  happy  I  hae  been  ; 


LAMENT  OF  QUEEN  MARY.  449 

Fu’  lightly  rase  I  in  the  morn, 

As  blithe  lay  down  at  e’en  : 

And  I ’m  the  sovereign  of  Scotland, 

And  monie  a  traitor  there  ; 

Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreign  bands, 

And  never-ending:  care. 

But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman  ! 

My  sister  and  my  file, 

Grim  vengeance  yet  shall  whet  a  sword 
That  through  thy  soul  shall  gae  ! 

The  weeping  blood  in  woman’s  breast 
Was  never  known  to  thee ; 

Nor  th’  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  wo 
Frae  woman’s  pitying  e’e. 

My  son  !  my  son  !  may  kinder  stars 
Upon  thy  fortune  shine  ! 

And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign, 

That  ne’er  wad  blink  on  mine ! 

God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother’s  faes, 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee ; 

And  where  thou  meet’st  thy  mother’s  friend, 
Remember  him  for  me  ! 

O  soon  to  me  may  summer  suns 
Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn  ! 

Nae  mair  to  me  the  autumn  winds 
Wave  o’er  the  yellow  corn  ! 

And  in  the  narrow  house  o’  death 
Let  winter  round  me  rave  ; 

And  the  next  flowers  that  deck  the  spring 
Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave  ! 


LAMENT  FOR  GLEN  CAIRN. 


4K0 


THERE  ’LL  NEVER  BE  PEACE  TILL  JAMIE 
COMES  HA  ME. 

T>  Y  yon  castle  wa’,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

^  I  heard  a  man  sing,  though  his  head  it  was 
gray ; 

And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast  down  came,  — 
There  ’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 
The  church  is  in  ruins,  the  state  is  in  jars, 
Delusions,  oppressions,  and  murderous  wars  ; 

We  darena  weel  say ’t,  though  we  ken  wha ’s  to 
blame,  — 

There  ’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

"My  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie  drew  sword, 

And  now  I  greet  round  their  green  beds  in  the  yerd  : 
It  brak  the  sweet  heart  of  my  faithfu’  auld  dame,  — 
There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 
Now  life  is  a  burden  that  bows  me  down, 

Since  I  tint,  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his  crown ; 

But  till  my  last  moments  my  words  are  the  same,  — 
There  ’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame  ! 

— ♦ — 

LAMENT  FOR  JAMES,  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRlSi. 

TfAHE  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills, 

By  fits  the  sun’s  departing  beam 
Looked  on  the  fading  yellow  woods 

That  waved  o’er »Lugar’s  winding  stream. 
Beneath  a  craigy  steep,  a  bard, 


LAMENT  FOR  GLEN  CAIRN. 

Laden  with  years  and  meikle  pain, 

In  loud  lament  bewailed  his  lord, 

Whom  death  had  all  untimely  ta’en. 

lie  leaned  him  to  an  ancient  aik, 

Whose  trunk  was  mouldering  down  with 

His  locks  were  bleached  white  with  time, 
His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi’  tears ; 

And  as  he  touched  his  trembling  harp, 

And  as  he  tuned  his  doleful  sang, 

The  winds,  lamenting  through  their  caves, 
To  echo  bore  the  notes  alang : 

“  Ye  scattered  birds  that  faintly  sing, 

*  The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire  ! 

Ye  woods  that  shed  on  a’  the  winds 
The  honours  of  the  aged  year ! 

A  few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay, 
Again  ye’ll  charm  the  ear  and  e’e : 

But  nocht  in  all  revolving  time 
Can  gladness  bring  again  to  me. 

“  I  am  a  bending,  aged  tree, 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and  rain  r 

But  now  has  come  a  cruel  blast, 

And  my  last  hold  of  earth  is  gane : 

Xae  leaf  o’  mine  shall  greet  the  spring, 
Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom ; 

But  1  maun  lie  before  the  storm, 

And  itliers  plant  them  in  my  room. 

“  I  Ye  seen  sae  monie  changefu’  years 
On  earth  I  am  a  stranger  grown ; 


451 


veara  ; 

J  ' 


452  LAMENT  FOR  GLEN  CAIRN. 

I  wander  in  the  ways  of  men, 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown  ; 

Unheard,  unpitied,  unrelieved, 

I  bear  alane  my  lade  o’  care, 

For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust, 

Lie  a’  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 

“  And  last  (the  sum  of  a’  my  griefs  !) 

My  noble  master  lies  in  clay ; 

The  flower  amang  our  barons  bold, 

His  country’s  pride,  his  country’s  stay ! 

In  weary  being  now  I  pine, 

For  a’  the  life  of  life  is  dead, 

And  hope  has  left  my  aged  ken, 

On  forward  wing  for  ever  fled. 

“  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp  ! 

The  voice  of  wo  and  wild  despair ; 

Awake  !  resound  thy  latest  lay  — 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair ! 

And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb, 

Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard 

Thou  brought  from  Fortune’s  mirkest  gloom. 

“  In  Poverty’s  low  barren  vale 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involved  me  round  ; 

Though  oft  I  turned  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found  : 

Thou  found’st  me,  like  the  morning  sun, 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air; 

The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song 
Became  alike  thy  fostering  care. 


LINES  SENT  TO  STR  WHITEFOORD.  453 

•f 

“  O  why  has  worth  so  short  a  date, 

While  villains  ripen  gray  with  time  ? 

Must  thou,  the  noble,  generous,  great, 

Fall  in  bold  manhood’s  hardy  prime ! 

Why  did  I  live  to  see  that  day  ? 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  wo ! 

O  had  I  met  the  mortal  shaft 
Which  laid  my  benefactor  low  ! 

“  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride, 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen; 

The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 
That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been  ; 

The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee ; 

But  I  ’ll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a’  that  thou  hast  done  for  me  !  ” 

— ♦ — 

LINES  SENT  TO  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD,  BART. 
OF  WHITEFOORD,  WITH  THE  FOREGOING 
POEM. 

HPIIOU,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever’st, 
Who,  save  thy  mind’s  reproach,  nought  earthly 
fear’st, 

To  thee  this  votive-offering  I  impart, 

The  tearful  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  friend  thou  valued’st,  I  the  patron  loved  ; 

His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world  approved  : 

We  ’ll  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has  gone, 

And  tread  the  dreary  path  to  that  dark  world 
unknown. 


fST  THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM 


'  THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM  OF  FINTRY. 

T  ATE  crippled  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg, 

^  About  to  beg  a  pass  for  leave  to  beg ; 

Dull,  listless,  teased,  dejected,  and  deprest 
(Nature  is  adverse  to  a  cripple’s  rest), 

Will  o-enerous  Graham  list  to  his  Poet’s  wail  ? 

c5  # 

(It  soothes  poor  Misery,  hearkening  to  her  tale) 
And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first  surveyed, 
And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming  trade ! 

Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature !  I  arraign ; 

Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I  complain. 

The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found, 

One  shakes  the  forests,  and  one  spurns  the  ground  : 
Thou  giv’st  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his  shell, 
The  envenomed  wasp,  victorious,  guards  his  cell ; 
Thy  minions,  kings,  defend,  control,  devour, 

In  all  the  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power ; 

Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtle  wiles  insure : 

The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  secure ; 

Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with  their  drug, 
The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes  are  snug ; 
Ev’n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts, 

Her  tongue  and  eyes,  her  dreaded  spear  and 
darts.  — 

But,  oh  !  thou  bitter  stepmother  and  hard, 

To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked  child  —  the  Bard  ! 

A  thino-  unteachable  in  world’s  skill, 

And  half  an  idiot,  too,  more  helpless  still ; 

No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  opening  dun ; 

No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  to  shun  ; 


THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM.  455 

No  horns,  but  those  by  luckless  Hymen  worn, 

And  those,  alas  !  not  Amalthea’s  horn  : 

No  nerves  olfactory,  Mammon’s  trusty  cur, 

Clad  in  rich  Dulness’  comfortable  fur  ;  — 

In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride, 

He  bears  the  unbroken  blast  from  every  side ; 
Vampire  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 

And  scorpion  critics  cureless  venom  dart. 

Critics  !  —  appalled  I  venture  on  the  name, 

Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of  fame  ; 
Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes  ! 

He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

His  heart  by  causeless  wanton  malice  wrung, 

By  blockheads’  daring  into  madness  stung ; 

His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear, 

By  miscreants  torn,  who  ne’er  one  sprig  must 
wear  ; 

Foiled,  bleeding,  tortured,  in  the  unequal  strife, 
The  hapless  Poet  flounders  on  through  life  ; 

Till  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom  fired, 

And  fled  each  muse  that  glorious  once  inspired, 
Low  sunk  in  squalid,  unprotected  age, 

Dead,  even  resentment,  for  his  injured  page, 

He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthless  critic’s 
rage ! 

So,  by  some  hedge,  the  generous  steed  deceased. 
For  half-starved  snarling  curs  a  dainty  feast, 

By  toil  and  famine  wore  to  skin  and  bone, 

Lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch’s  son. 

0  Dulness !  portion  of  the  truly  blest ! 


456  THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM. 

Calm  sheltered  haven  of  eternal  rest  ! 

Thv  sons  ne’er  madden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  Fortune’s  polar  frost,  or  torrid  beams. 

It'  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup, 

With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up : 

Conscious  the  bounteous  meed  they  well  deserve, 
They  only  wonder  “  some  folks  ”  do  not  starve. 
The  grave  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his  frog, 

And  thinks  the  mallard  a  sad  worthless  dog. 

When  Disappointment  snaps  the  clue  of  Hope, 
And  through  disastrous  night  they  darkling  grope, 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bear, 

And  just  conclude  that  “fools  are  fortune’s  care.” 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest’s  shocks, 

Strong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 

Not  so  the  idle  Muses’  mad-cap  train, 

Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck  brain  ; 
In  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 

By  turns  in  soaring  heaven  or  vaulted  hell. 

I  dread  thee,  Fate,  relentless  and  severe, 

With  all  a  poet’s,  husband’s,  father’s  fear  ! 

Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost  — 
Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust ; 

Fled,  like  the  sun  eclipsed  as  noon  appears, 

And  left  us  darkling;  in  a  world  of  tears  ! 

O  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  prayer !  — 
Fintry,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare  ! 
Through  a  long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown, 
And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  g;o  down  ! 
May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path, 

Give  energy  to  life,  and  soothe  his  latest  breath, 
With  many  a  filial  tear  circling  the  bed  of  death  ! 


TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON. 


457 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON, 

ON  CROWNING  HIS  BUST  AT  EDNAM,  ROXBURGHSHIRE, 

WITH  BAYS. 

WHILE  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden’s  flood, 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green, 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 

Or  tunes  fEolian  strains  between  : 

While  Summer  with  a  matron  grace 
Retreats  to  Dryburgh’s  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade  : 


While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 

By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head, 

And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind, 

Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed : 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o’er 

The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 
Rousing  the  turbid  torrent’s  roar, 

Or  sweeping,  wild,  a  waste  of  snows : 

So  long,  sweet  Poet  of  the  year  ! 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won ; 
While  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


458 


LOVELY  DAVIES. 


LOVELY  DAVIES. 

Tune  —  Miss  Muir. 


HOW  shall  I,  unskilful’,  try 
^  The  poet’s  occupation, 

The  tunefu’  powers,  in  happy  hours, 
That  whisper  inspiration  V 
Even  they  maun  dare  an  effort  mair 
Than  aught  they  ever  gave  us, 
Ere  they  rehearse,  in  equal  verse, 
The  charms  o’  lovely  Davies. 


Each  eye  it  cheers,  when  she  appears, 
Like  Phoebus  in  the  morning, 

When  past  the  shower,  and  every  flower 
The  garden  is  adorning. 

As  the  wretch  looks  o’er  Siberia’s  shore, 
When  winter-bound  the  wave  is, 

Sae  droops  our  heart  when  we  maun  part 
Frae  charming,  lovely  Davies. 


Her  smile ’s  a  gift,  frae  ’boon  the  lift, 
That  maks  us  mair  than  princes  ; 

A  sceptered  hand,  a  king’s  command, 

Is  in  her  darting  glances  : 

The  man  in  arms  ’gainst  female  charms, 
Even  he  her  willing  slave  is  ; 

He  hugs  his  chain,  and  owns  the  reign 
Of  conquering,  lovely  Davies. 

My  Muse  to  dream  of  such  a  theme, 
Her  feeble  powers  surrender  ; 


THE  BONNY  WEE  THING. 


459 


The  eagle’s  gaze  alone  surveys 
The  sun’s  meridian  splendour  : 

I  wad  in  vain  essay  the  strain, 

The  deed  too  daring  brave  is ; 
I’ll  drop  the  lyre,  and  mute  admire 
The  charms  o’  lovely  Davies. 


THE  BONNY  WEE  THING. 

Tune  —  Bonny  wee  Thing. 

DONNY  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 

I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine  ! 

Wishfully  I  look  and  languish 
In  that  bonny  Lice  o’  thine ; 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi’  anguish, 
Lost  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

Wit  and  grace,  and  love  and  beauty, 

In  ae  constellation  shine  ; 

To  adore  thee  is  my  duty, 

Goddess  o’  this  soul  o’  mine ! 

Bonny  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 

I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine  ! 


460  ON  MR.  MAX  WELDS  BIRTHDAY. 


TO  MR.  MAXWELL,  OF  TERRAUGHTY,  ON  HIS 

BIRTHDAY. 

TTEALTH  to  tlie  Maxwells’  veteran  chief! 

Health,  aye  unsoured  by  care  or  grief  i 
Inspired,  I  turned  Fate’s  sybil  leaf 
This  natal  morn ; 

I  see  thy  life  is  stuff  o’  prief, 

Scarce  quite  half-worn. 

This  day  thou  metes  threescore  elever 
And  I  can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven 
(The  second-sight,  ye  ken,  is  given 
To  ilka  Poet) 

On  thee  a  tack  o’  seven-times-seven 
Will  yet  bestow  it. 

If  envious  buckies  view  wi’  sorrow 

Thy  lengthened  days  on  this  blest  morrow, 

May  Desolation’s  lang-teethed  harrow, 

Nine  miles  an  hour, 

Rake  them  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 

In  brunstane  stoure  ! 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  monie, 

Baith  honest  men  and  lasses  bonny, 

May  couthie  fortune,  kind  and  eannie. 

In  social  glee, 

Wi’  mornings  blithe,  and  e’enings  funny, 

Bless  them  and  thee  ! 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 


461 


Fareweel,  auld  birkie  !  Lord  be  near  ye, 

And  then  the  deil  he  daurna  steer  ye  : 

Your  friends  aye  love,  your  faes  aye  fear  ye : 

For  me,  shame  fa’  me, 

Tf  niest  my  heart  I  dinna  wear  ye, 

While  Burns  they  ca’  me ! 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

Air  —  Oran  an  Aoig. 

Scene:  A  Field  of  Battle. —Time  of  the  day:  Evening.— The 
wounded  and  dying  of  the  victorious  army  are  supposed  to 
join  in  the  following  song. 

ARE  WELL,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth, 
and  ye  skies, 

Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun  ; 

Farewell  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear  tender  ties, 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 

Thou  grim  King  of  Terrors,  thou  life’s  gloomy  foe  ! 

Go  frighten  the  coward  and  slave ; 

Go  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant !  but  know 
No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 

Thou  strik’st  the  dull  peasant  — he  sinks  in  the 
dark, 

Nor  saves  e’en  the  wreck  of  a  name ; 

Thou  strik’st  the  young  hero  —  a  glorious  mark  ! 
lie  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame  ! 

8 


VOL.  II. 


462  SWEET  SENSIBILITY ,  HOW  CHARMING. 

In  the  field  of  proud  honour,  our  swords  in  our 
hands, 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save, 

While  victory  shines  on  life’s  last  ebbing  sands, 

Oh  !  who  wrould  not  die  with  the  brave  ? 


FOURTH  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM  OF  FINTRY. 

CALL  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains ; 

A  fabled  Muse  may  suit  a  bard  that  feigns. 
Friend  of  my  life!  my  ardent  spirit  burns, 

And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns, 

For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new, 

The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day  !  thou  other  paler  light ! 

And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ! 

If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface, 

If  I  that  giver’s  bounty  e’er  disgrace, 

Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  spheres, 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain’s  years  ! 


SWEET  SENSIBILITY,  HOW  CHARMING. 

O  WEE  T  Sensibility,  how  charming, 
Thou,  my  friend,  canst  truly  tell  ; 
But  how  Distress  with  horrors  arming, 
Thou,  alas  !  hast  known  too  well  i 


AE  FOND  RTSS, 


*63 


Fairest  Flower,  behold  the  lily, 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 

Let  the  blast  sweep  o’er  the  valley, 

See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 

Hear  the  woodlark  charm  the  forest, 
Telling  o’er  his  little  joys  ; 

But,  alas  !  a  prey  the  surest 
To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure 
Finer  feelings  can  bestow  ; 

Cords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  wo. 

— « — 

AE  FOND  KISS. 

Titne  —  Rory  Dali's  Port. 

\  E  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  fareweel,  and  then  for  ever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  ’ll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  ’ll  wage  thee. 

Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 

While  the  star  of  Hope  she  leaves  him  ? 

Me,  nae  cheerful  twinkle  lights  me ; 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I  ’ll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy  ; 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy  ; 


464  BEHOLD  THE  HOUR. 

But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her, 

Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindlv, 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 

Never  met,  or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken-hearted  ! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest  ! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 

Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  Enjoyment,  Love,  and  Pleasure ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  fareweel,  alas  !  for  ever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  ’ll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  ’ll  wage  thee. 

— • — 

SONG.1 

To  an  old  Scots  Time. 

"O  EIIOLD  the  hour,  the  boat,  arrive ! 

My  dearest  Nancy,  O  fareweel ! 
Severed  frae  thee,  can  I  survive, 

Frae  thee  whom  I  hae  loved  sae  weel  ? 

Endless  and  deep  shall  be  my  grief; 

Nae  ray  o’  comfort  shall  I  see, 

But  this  most  precious,  dear  belief, 

That  thou  wilt  still  remember  me. 

1  Another  copy  of  this  song  is  given  further  on,  at  p.  173. 


ANCE  MAIR  I  HAIL  THEE .  465 

Alang  tlie  solitary  shore, 

Where  fleeting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry. 

Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I  ’ll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye. 

Ilappy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I  ’ll  say, 

Wliere  now  my  Nancy’s  path  shall  be  ! 

While  through  your  sweets  she  holds  her  way, 

O  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ? 

- v  - 

SONG. 

To  a  charming  plaintive  Scots  Air. 

\  NCE  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December  ! 

-  Ance  mair  I  hail  thee  wi’  sorrow  and  care ; 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  mak’st  me  remember, 
Parting  wi’  Nancy,  oh,  ne’er  to  meet  mair ! 

Fond  lovers’  parting  is  sweet,  painful  pleasure, 
Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting  hour; 
But  the  dire  feeling,  oh,  farewell  for  ever! 

Anguish  unmingled  and  agony  pure  ! 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 

Till  the  last  leaf  o’  the  summer  is  flown, 

Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom, 

Since  my  last  hope  and  last  comfort  is  gone ! 

Still  as  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 

Still  shall  I  hail  thee  wi’  sorrow  and  care; 

For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  mak’st  me  remember, 
Parting  wi’  Nancy,  oh,  ne’er  to  meet  mair  1 


466 


MY  NANNIE'S  AW  A'. 


0  MAY,  THY  MORN-. 

MAY,  thy  morn  was  ne’er  so  sweet 
As  the  mirk  night  o’  December, 

For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine, 

And  secret  was  the  chamber : 

And  dear  was  she  I  darena  name, 

But  I  will  aye  remember  ; 

And  dear  was  she  I  darena  name, 

But  I  will  aye  remember. 

And  here ’s  to  them  that  like  oursel’ 
Can  push  about  the  jorum  ; 

And  here ’s  to  them  that  wish  us  weel, 
May  a’  that ’s  glide  watch  o’er  them  . 

And  here ’s  to  them  we  darena  name, 
The  dearest  o’  the  quorum ; 

And  here ’s  to  them  we  darena  tell, 

The  dearest  o’  the  quorum. 


♦ 


MY  NANNIE’S  AWA’. 


)W  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  Nature  arrays, 
And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o’er  the 


braes 


While  birds  warble  welcome  in  ilka  green  shaw  ; 
But  to  me  it ’s  delightless  —  my  Nannie ’s  awa’. 

The  snawdrap  and  primrose  our  woodlands  adorn, 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o’  the  morn  ; 

They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly  they  blaw, 
They  mind  me  o’  Nannie  —  and  Nannie ’s  awa’. 


BEIL'S  A  WA'  WI'  THE  EXCISEMAN.  4G7 

Thou  laverock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  of  the 
lawn, 

The  shepherd  to  warn  o’  the  gray-breaking  dawn  ; 
And  thou  mellow  mavis  that  hails  the  night  fa’, 
Give  over  for  pity  —  my  Nannie’s  awa\ 

Come  autumn,  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  and  gray. 
And  soothe  me  with  tidings  o’  Nature’s  decay  : 
The  dark  dreary  winter  and  wild  driving  snaw 
Alane  can  delight  me  —  now  Nannie ’s  awa’  1 


TO  FERGUSSON. 

TLL-FATED  genius  !  Heaven-taught  Fergusson  ! 
What  heart  that  feels  and  will  not  yield  a 
tear, 

To  think  life’s  sun  did  set  ere  well  begun 
To  shed  its  influence  on  thy  bright  career. 

O  why  should  truest  worth  and  genius  pine, 
Beneath  the  iron  grasp  of  Want  and  Wo, 
While  titled  knaves  and  idiot  greatness  shine 
In  all  the  splendour  Fortune  can  bestow  ! 

— • — 

THE  DEIL’S  AWA’  WI’  THE  EXCISEMAN. 

Tune  —  The  Looking-glass. 

rPIIE  deil  cam  fiddling  through  the  town, 

And  danced  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman. 

And  ilka  wife  cries  :  “  Auld  Mahoun, 
i  wish  you  luck  o’  the  prize,  man  !  ” 


f 


468  BONNY  LESLEY. 

The  deil ’s  awa’,  the  deil ’s  awa’, 

The  deil ’s  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman  ; 

He ’s  danced  awa’,  he ’s  danced  awa’, 

He ’s  danced  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman  ! 

“  \VTe  ’ll  mak  our  maut,  we  ’ll  brew  our  drink, 

We  ’ll  dance,  and  sing,  and  rejoice,  man  ; 

And  monie  braw  thanks  to  the  meikle  black  deil 
That  danced  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman.” 

The  deil ’s  awa’,  the  deil ’s  awa’, 

The  deil ’s  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman  ; 

He ’s  danced  awa’,  he ’s  danced  awa’, 

He ’s  danced  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman  ! 

There ’s  threesome  reels,  there ’s  foursome  reels, 
There ’s  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man  ; 

But  the  ae  best  dance  e’er  cam  to  the  land 
Was  —  the  deil ’s  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman. 

The  deil ’s  awa’,  the  deil ’s  awa’, 

The  deil ’s  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman  ; 

He ’s  danced  awa’,  he ’s  danced  awa’, 

He ’s  danced  awa’  wi’  the  Exciseman ! 


BONNY  LESLEY. 

SAW  ye  bonny  Lesley, 

As  she  gaed  owre  the  Border  ? 
She  ’&  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  further. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 


CRA IGIEB URN  WOOD.  469 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  never  made  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  couldna  scaith  thee, 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  ; 

He ’d  look  into  thy  bonny  face, 

And  say  “  I  canna  wrang  thee  !  ” 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 

Misfortune  sha’  na  steer  thee ; 

Thou  Tt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they  ’ll  ne’er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 

That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 
There ’s  nane  again  sae  bonny. 


CRAIGIEBURN  WOOD. 

SWEET  closes  the  eve  on  Craigieburn  Wood, 
And  blithely  awaukens  the  morrow ; 

But  the  pride  of  the  spring  in  the  Craigieburn 
Wood 

Can  yield  me  nothing  but  sorrow. 


CRAIG  I EB  URN  WOOD. 


470 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  tliee,  dearie, 
And  oh,  to  be  lying  beyond  thee  ! 

0  sweetly,  soundly,  weel  may  he  sleep 
That ’s  laid  in  the  bed  beyond  thee. 

I  see  the  spreading  leaves  and  flowers, 

I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing ; 

But  pleasure  they  hae  nane  tor  me, 

While  care  my  heart  is  wringing. 

I  canna  tell,  I  maunna  tell, 

I  darena  for  your  anger ; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 

If  I  conceal  it  langer. 

I  see  thee  gracefu’,  straight,  and  tall, 

I  see  thee  sweet  and  bonny ; 

But  oh,  what  will  my  torments  be, 

If  thou  refuse  thy  Johnnie  ! 

To  see  thee  in  another’s  arms, 

In  love  to  lie  and  languish, 

’T  wad  be  my  dead,  that  will  be  seen, 

My  heart  wad  burst  wi’  anguish. 

But,  Jeanie,  say  thou  wilt  be  mine, 

Say  thou  lo’es  nane  before  mo. 

And  a’  my  days  o’  life  to  come 
I  ’ll  gratefully  adore  thee. 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  LAND  I  LOVE.  171 


CEAIGIEBUEN  WOOD. 


CWEET  fa’s  the  eve  on  Craigieburn, 
^  And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow ; 
But  a’  the  pride  o’  spring’s  return 
Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 


I  see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees, 
I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing ; 

But  what  a  weary  wight  can  please, 
And  care  his  bosom  wringing  ? 


Fain,  fain  would  I  my  griefs  impart, 
Yet  darena  for  your  anger ; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart 
If  I  conceal  it  langer. 


If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me, 

If  thou  shalt  love  anither, 

When  von  green  leaves  fade  frae  the  tree, 
Around  my  grave  they  ’ll  wither. 


FEAE  THE  FEIENDS  AND  LAND  I  LOVE 

Air  —  Canon  Side. 

T^RAE  the  friends  and  land  I  love 
Driven  by  Fortune’s  felly  spite, 

Frae  my  best  beloved  I  rove, 

Never  niair  to  taste  delight ; 


% 

472  MEIKLE  THINKS  MY  LOVE . 

Never  mnir  maun  hope  to  find 
Ease  frae  toil,  relief  frae  care  : 

When  remembrance  wracks  the  mind, 
Pleasures  but  unveil  despair. 

Brightest  climes  shall  mirk  appear, 
Desert  ilka  blooming  shore, 

Till  the  Fates  nae  mair  severe, 

Friendship,  Love,  and  Peace  restore  ; 

Till  Revenge,  wi’  laurelled  head, 

Bring  our  banished  hame  again, 

And  ilk  loyal  bonny  lad 

Cross  the  seas  and  win  his  ain. 


MEIKLE  THINKS  MY  LOVE. 

Tune  —  My  Tocher ’s  the  Jewel. 

/"A  MEIKLE  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  beauty, 
And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  kin ; 
But  little  thinks  my  luve  I  ken  brawlie 
My  tocher’s  the  jewel  has  charms  for  him. 
It ’s  a’  for  the  apple  he  ’ll  nourish  the  tree ; 

It ’s  a’  for  the  honey  he  ’ll  cherish  the  bee  ; 
My  laddie ’s  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi’  the  siller, 
He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

Your  proffer  o’  luve ’s  an  arle-penny, 

My  tocher’s  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy  ; 

But  an  ye  be  crafty,  I  am  cunnin’, 

Sae  ye  wi’  another  your  fortune  maun  try. 


WE  AT  CAN  A  YOUNG  LASSIE?  473 

Ye  ’re  like  to  the  timmer  o’  yon  rotten  wood, 

Ye  ’re  like  to  the  bark  o’  von  rotten  tree ; 

Ye  ’ll  slip  frae  me  like  a  knotless  thread, 

And  ye  ’ll  crack  your  credit  wi’  mae  nor  me. 


WHAT  CAN  A  YOUNG  LASSIE? 

Tune —  What  can  a  Young  Lassie  do  wi  an  Auld  Man  ? 

HAT  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall  a  young 
~ "  lassie, 

What  can  a  young  lassie  do  wi’  an  auld  man  ? 
Bad  luck  on  the  penny  that  tempted  my  minnie 
To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller  and  Ian’  ! 

He ’s  always  compleenin’  frae  mornin’  to  e’enin’, 

He  hoasts  and  he  hirples  the  weary  day  lang  ; 
He ’s  doyl’t  and  he ’s  dozin’,  his  bluid  it  is  frozen, 

O  dreary ’s  the  night  wi’  a  crazy  auld  man  ! 

He  hums  and  he  hankers,  he  frets  and  he  cankers, 
I  never  can  please  him,  do  a’  that  I  can ; 

He ’s  peevish  and  jealous  of  a’  the  young  fellows, 
O  dool  on  the  day  I  met  wi’  an  auld  man ! 

My  auld  auntie  Katie  upon  me  takes  pity, 

I  T1  do  my  endeavour  to  follow  her  plan  : 

1  ’ll  cross  him,  and  wrack  him,  until  I  heart-break 
him, 

And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a  new  pan. 


474  I  DO  CONFESS  THOU  ART  SAE  FAIR . 


HOW  CAN  I  BE  BLITHE  AND  GLAD? 

Tone  —  The  Bonny  Lad  that ’s  far  awa’’. 

HOW  can  I  be  blithe  and  glad, 

Or  how  can  I  gang  brisk  and  braw, 
When  the  bonny  lad  that  I  lo’e  best 
Is  owre  the  hills  and  far  awa’  ? 

It’s  no  the  frosty  winter  wind, 

It  ’s  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw ; 

But  aye  the  tear  comes  in  my  e’e, 

To  think  on  him  that ’s  far  awa’. 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door, 

My  friends  they  hae  disowned  me  a' ; 

But  I  hae  ane  will  tak  my  part, 

The  bonny  lad  that ’s  far  awa’. 

A  pair  o’  gloves  he  bought  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gae  me  twa  ; 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 

The  bonny  lad  that ’s  far  awa’. 

— 

I  DO  CONFESS  THOU  ART  SAE  FATK. 

J  DO  confess  thou  art  sae  fair, 

I  wad  been  owre  the  lugs  in  love, 

Had  I  na  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lips  could  speak  thy  heart  could  move. 

I  do  confess  thee  sweet,  but  find 

Thou  are  sae  thriftless  o’  thy  sweets, 


TON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS.  475 

Thy  favours  are  the  silly  wind, 

That  kisses  ilka  tiling  it  meets. 

See  yonder  rose-bud,  rich  in  dew, 

Ainang  its  native  briers  sae  coy ; 

How  sune  it  tines  its  scent  and  hue 
When  pou’d  and  worn  a  common  toy  ! 

Sic  fate,  ere  lang,  shall  thee  betide, 

Though  thou  may  gaily  bloom  a  while ; 

Yet  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside 
Like  ony  common  weed  and  vile. 

— ♦ — 

YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS. 

Tune  —  Yon  Wild  Mossy  Mountains. 

YT ON  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide, 
L  That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the  youth  o’  the 
Clyde, 

Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  through  the 
heather  to  feed, 

And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes  on 
his  reed. 

Not  Gowrie’s  rich  valleys,  nor  Forth’s  sunny  shores, 
To  me  liae  the  charms  o’  yon  wild  mossy  moors  ; 
For  there,  by  a  lanely  and  sequestered  stream, 
Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my  dream. 

Ainang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still  be  my  path, 
Ilk  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green,  narrow 
strath  ; 


476  0  FOR  ANE-AND-TWENTY,  TAM. 

For  there,  wi’  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I  rove, 
While  o’er  us  unheeded  dee  the  swift  hours  o’  love 

She  is  not  the  fairest,  although  she  is  fair ; 

O’  nice  education  but  sma’  is  her  share ; 

Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be  ; 

But  I  lo’e  the  dear  lassie  because  she  lo’es  me. 

To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield  him  a  prize, 
In  her  armour  of  glances,  and  blushes,  and  sighs  ! 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polished  her 
darts, 

They  dazzle  our  een,  as  they  flee  to  our  hearts. 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond  spark¬ 
ling  e’e, 

Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me  ; 

And  the  heart  beating  love  as  I ’m  clasped  in  her 
arms, 

Oh,  these  are  my  lassie’s  all-conquering  charms  ! 

— ♦ — 

0  FOR  ANE-AND-TWENTY,  TAM. 

Tune  —  The  Moudiewort. 

CHORUS. 

A  ND  O  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam, 

And  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tara, 

I  ’ll  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin’  sang, 

An’  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


BESS  AND  HER  SPINNING-  WHEEL.  477 


They  snool  me  sair,  and  baud  me  down, 

And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tam ! 

But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  roun’— 
And  then  comes  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

A  gleib  o’  lan’,  a  claut  o’  gear, 

Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam  ; 

At  kith  or  kin  I  needna  spier, 

An’  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

They  ’ll  hae  me  wed  a  wealthy  coof, 

Though  I  mysel’  hae  plenty,  Tam  ; 

But  hear’st  thou,  laddie  —  there’s  my  loof  — 
I  ’in  thine  at  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


♦ 


BESS  AND  HER  SPINNING-WHEEL. 
Tune —  The  Sweet  Lass  that  lo'es  me. 

LEEZE  me  on  my  spinning-wheel. 


O  leeze  me  on  my  rock  and  reel ; 
Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien, 
And  haps  me  fiel  and  warm  at  e’en  ! 

I  ’ll  set  me  down  and  sing  and  spin, 
While  laigli  descends  the  simmer  sun, 
Blest  wi’  content,  and  milk  and  meal  — 
O  leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel ! 

On  ilka  hand  the  burnies  trot, 

And  meet  below  my  theekit  cot ; 

The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white, 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite, 

Alike  to  screen  the  birdie’s  nest, 


VOL.  II. 


9 


N  ITUS  DALE'S  WELCOME  HA  ME. 


And  little  fishes’  caller  rest : 

The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  biel’, 
Where  blithe  I  turn  my  spinning-wheel. 

On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats  wail, 

And  echo  cons  the  doolfu’  tale  ; 

The  lintwhites  in  the  hazel  braes, 
Delighted,  rival  ither’s  lays : 

The  craik  amang  the  clover  hay, 

The  paitrick  whirrin’  o’er  the  ley, 

The  swallow  jinkin’  round  my  shiel, 
Amuse  me  at  my  spinning-wheel. 

Wi’  sma’  to  sell,  and  less  to  buy, 

Aboon  distress,  below  envy, 

O  wha  wad  leave  this  humble  state, 

For  a’  the  pride  of  a’  the  great? 

Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys, 

Amid  their  cumbrous,  dinsome  joys, 

Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinning-wheel  ? 

— ♦ — 

NITHSDALE’S  WELCOME  HAME. 

rJMIE  noble  Maxwells  and  their  powers 
Are  coming  o’er  the  Border, 

And  they  ’ll  gae  bigg  Terregles  towers, 
And  set  them  a’  in  order. 

And  they  declare  Terregles  fair, 

For  their  abode  they  choose  it ; 

There ’s  no  a  heart  in  a’  the  land 
But ’s  lighter  at  the  news  o’ ’t. 


COUNTRY  LASSIE. 


479 


Though  stars  in  skies,  may  disappear, 
And  angry  tempests  gather, 

The  happy  hour  may  soon  be  near 
That  brings  us  pleasant  weather. 
The  weary  night  o’  care  and  grief 
INI  ay  hae  a  joyful  morrow  ; 

So  dawning  day  has  brought  relief — 
Fareweel  our  night  of  sorrow  ! 


— ♦ — 

COUNTRY  LASSIE. 

Tune —  The  Country  Lass. 

TN  simmer,  when  the  hay  was  mawn, 

And  corn  waved  green  in  ilka  field, 

While  claver  blooms  white  o’er  the  lea, 

And  roses  blaw  in  ilka  bield ; 

Blithe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel, 

Says,  “  I  ’ll  be  wed,  come  o’ ’t  what  will ; ” 

Out  spak  a  dame  in  wrinkled  eild, 

“  O  guid  advisement  comes  nae  ill. 

“  It ’s  ye  hae  wooers  monie  ane, 

And,  lassie,  ye  ’re  but  young,  ye  ken  ; 

Then  wait  a  wee,  and  cannie  wale 
A  routhie  butt,  a  routhie  ben  : 

There ’s  Johnnie  o’  the  Buskie  Glen, 

Fu’  is  his  barn,  fu’  is  his  byre ; 

Tak  this  frae  me,  my  bonny  hen, 

It ’s  plenty  beets  the  luver’s  fire.” 


480 


FAIR  ELIZA. 


“  For  Johnnie  o’  the  Buskie  Glen, 

I  dinna  care  a  single  file  ; 

He  lo’es  sae  weel  his  craps  and  kye, 

He  has  nae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

But  blithe ’s  the  blink  o’  Robbie’s  e’e, 

And  weel  I  wat  he  lo’es  me  dear  : 

Ae  blink  o’  him  I  wadna  gie 

For  Buskie  Glen  and  a’  his  gear  " 

“  O  thoughtless  lassie,  life ’s  a  faught ; 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair  ; 

But  aye  fou  han’t  is  fechtin’  best, 

A  hungry  care ’s  an  unco  care. 

But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare, 

And  wilfu’  folk  maun  hae  their  will ; 

Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair, 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill.r 

% 

“  O  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o’  land, 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye  ; 
But  the  tender  heart  o’  leesome  luve 
The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy. 

We  may  be  poor —  Robbie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on ; 
Content  and  luve  brings  peace  and  joy  — 
What  mair  hae  queens  upon  a  throne  ?  ” 


FAIR  ELIZA. 


URN  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part, 


0  LUVE  WILL  VENTURE  IN.  481 

Rue  on  thy  despairing  lover! 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithful’  heart  ? 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza  ; 

If  to  love  thy  heart  denies, 

For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence, 

Under  friendship’s  kind  disguise  ! 

Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I  offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee  : 

Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever, 

Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ? 

While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom, 

Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe  ; 

Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom, 

In  the  pride  o’  sunny  noon  ; 

Not  the  little  sporting  fairy, 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon  ; 

Not  the  poet  in  the  moment 
Fancy  lightens  on  his  e’e, 

Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture 
That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 

— • — 

0  LUVE  WILL  VENTURE  IN. 

Tune  —  The  Posie. 

LUVE  will  venture  in  where  it  daurna  weel 
be  seen  ; 

0  luve  will  venture  in  where  wisdom  ance  has 
been  ; 


482  0  LUVE  WILL  VENTURE  IN. 

But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove,  among  the  wood 
sae  green  — 

And  a’  to  pu’  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu’,  the  firstling  o’  the  year, 

And  I  will  pu’  the  pink,  the  emblem  o’  my  dear  ; 

For  she’s  the  pink  o’  womankind,  and  blooms 
without  a  peer  — 

And  a’  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I  ’ll  pu’  the  budding  rose,  when  Phoebus  peeps  in 
view, 

For  it’s  like  a  baumy  kiss  o’  her  sweet  bonny 
mou’ ; 

The  hyacinth  for  constancy,  wi’  its  unchanging 
blue  — 

And  a’  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair, 

And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I  ’ll  place  the  lily  there ; 

The  daisy ’s  for  simplicity  and  unaffected  air  — 

And  a’  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu’,  wi’  its  locks  o’  siller  gray, 

Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  of 
day ; 

But  the  songster’s  nest  within  the  bush  T  winna 
tak  away  — 

And  a’  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  woodbine  I  will  pu’  when  the  e’ening  star  is 
near, 

And  the  diamond  draps  o’  dew  shall  be  her  cen  sae 
clear ; 


THE  BANKS  OF  DO  ON.  483 

The  violet ’s  for  modesty,  which  weel  she  fa’s  to 
wear  — 

And  a’  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

1  ’ll  tie  the  posie  round  wi’  the  silken  band  o’  luve, 

And  I  ’ll  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I  ’ll  swear  by 
a’  above, 

That  to  my  latest  draught  o’  life  the  band  shall 
ne’er  remove  — 

And  this  shall  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

— ♦ — 

THE  BANKS  OF  DOON. 

Tune  —  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight. 

banks  and  braes  o’  bonny  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair  ; 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary  fu’  o’  care  ! 

Thou  ’It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 
That  wantons  through  the  flowering  thorn ; 

Thou  minds  me  o’  departed  joys, 

Departed  —  never  to  return  ! 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonny  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o’  mine. 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I  pou’d  a  rose, 

Fu’  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ; 

And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 


WILLIE  WASTLE. 


WILLIE  WASTLE. 

Tune  —  The  Eight  Men  of  Moidart. 

WILLIE  WASTLE  dwalt  on  Tweed, 
The  spot  they  called  it  Linkum-dodd 
Willie  was  a  wabster  guid, 

Could  stown  a  clew  wi’  ony  bodie. 

He  had  a  wife  was  dour  and  din, 

O  Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mither  : 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her. 

She  has  an  e’e  —  she  has  but  ane, 

The  cat  has  twa  the  very  colour  ; 

Five  rusty  teeth,  forbye  a  stump, 

A  clapper-tongue  wad  deave  a  miller  : 

A  whiskin’  beard  about  her  mou’, 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither  — 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her. 

She ’s  bough-houghed,  she ’s  hein-shinned, 
Ae  limpin’  leg  a  hand-breed  shorter  ; 
She’s  twisted  right,  she’s  twisted  left, 

To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter  : 

She  has  a  hump  upon  her  breast, 

The  twin  o’  that  upon  her  shouther  — 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her. 

Auld  baudrons  by  the  ingle  sits, 

And  wi’  her  loof  her  face  a-washin’ ; 


THE  SMILING  SPRING.  485 

But  Willie’s  wife  is  nae  sae  trig, 

She  (.lights  her  grunzie  wi’  a  liushion ; 

Her  walie  nieves  like  midden-creels, 

Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan  W ater  — 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her. 

— « — 

THE  SMILING  SPRING. 

Tune  —  The  Bonny  Bell. 

TITHE  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 

-*•-  And  surly  Winter  grimly  Hies  ; 

Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters, 

And  bonny  blue  are  the  sunny  skies. 

Fresh  o’er  the.  mountains  breaks  forth  the  morn.’ 
ing,  _ 

The  evening  gilds  the  ocean’s  swell ; 

All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun’s  returning, 

And  I  rejoice  in  my  bonny  Bell. 

The  flowery  Spring  leads  sunny  Summer, 

And  yellow  Autumn  presses  near  ; 

Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  Winter, 

Till  smiling  Spring  again  appear. 

Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing. 

Old  Time  and  Nature  their  changes  tell, 

But  never  ranging,  still  unchanging, 

I  adore  my  bonny  Bell. 


486  SHE'S  FAIR  AND  FA  USE. 

THE  GALLANT  WEAVER. 

Tune —  The  Weaver's  March. 

TT/MIEBE  Cart  rins  rowin’  to  the  sea, 

*  '  By  monie  a  flower  and  spreading  tree. 
There  lives  a  lad,  the  lad  for  me, 
lie  is  a  gallant  weaver. 

O  I  had  wooers  audit  or  nine, 

They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine  ; 

And  I  was  feared  my  heart  would  tine, 

And  I  gied  it  to  the  weaver. 

My  daddie  signed  my  tocher-band, 

To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  land  ; 

But  to  my  heart  1  ’ll  add  my  hand, 

And  <rie  it  to  the  weaver. 

*D 

While  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers  ; 

While  bees  delight  in  opening  flowers  ; 

While  corn  grows  green  in  simmer  showers, 

I  ’ll  love  my  gallant  weaver. 

— ♦ — 

SHE’S  FAIR  AND  FAUSE. 

Tune  —  She 's  Fair  and  Fause. 

^IIE  ’S  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart, 
I  lo’ed  her  meikle  and  lang  ; 

She ’s  broken  her  vow,  she ’s  broken  my  heart, 
And  I  may  e’en  gae  hang. 


MY  WIFE 'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING.  487 

A  coof  cam  in  \vi’  routh  o’  gear, 

And  I  liae  tint  my  dearest  dear  ; 

But  woman  is  but  warld’s  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonny  lass  gang. 

Whae’er  ye  be  that  woman  love, 

To  this  be  never  blind  : 

Nae  ferlie ’t  is  though  fickle  she  prove, 

A  woman  has ’t  by  kind.  , 

O  woman,  lovely  woman  fair  ! 

An  angel  form ’s  fa’n  to  thy  share ; 

’T  wad  been  owre  meikle  to  gien  thee  mair, 

I  mean  an  angel  mind. 

— • — 

MY  WIFE’S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

QIIE  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 

^  She  is  a  handsome  Avee  thing, 

She  is  a  bonny  Avee  thing, 

This  SAveet  Avee  Avife  o’  mine. 

I  never  saAv  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo’ed  a  dearer, 

And  niest  my  heart  I  ’ll  Avear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  Avinsome  Avee  thing, 

She  is  a  handsome  Avee  thing, 

She  is  a  bonny  Avee  thing, 

This  SAveet  Avee  Avife  o’  mine. 


488  HIGHLAND  MAR  Y. 

The  warld’s  wrack  we  share  o’  % 
The  warsle  and  the  care  o’ ’t  ; 
Wi’  her  I  ’ll  blithely  bear  it. 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Tune  —  Katharine  Ogie. 

’VTE  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 

For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 
How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom, 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 
I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie ; 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi’  monie  a  vow,  and  locked  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu’  tender ; 

And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder : 

Rut.  oh  !  fell  death’s  untimely  frost, 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAN.  489 

Hi  at  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 

Now  green ’s  the  sod,  and  cauld ’s  the  clay, 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 
I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly, 

And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 
That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 

And  moulderin'*;  now  in  silent  dust 
That  heart  that  lo’ed  me  dearly ! 

But  still  within  my  bosom’s  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAN, 

AN  OCCASIONAL  ADDRESS  SPOKEN  BY  MISS  FONTENELLE 
ON  HER  BENEFIT-NIGHT  [NOV.  26,  1792]. 

TXTIIILE  Europe’s  eye  is  fixed  on  mighty  things, 
’  '  The  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings ; 
While  quacks  of  state  must  each  produce  liis 
plan, 

And  even  children  lisp  the  Bights  of  Man  ; 

Amid  this  mighty  fuss  just  let  me  mention, 

The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 

© 

First,  in  the  sexes’  intermixed  connection, 

One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  —  Protection. 

The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head  elate, 

Helpless  must  fall  before  the  blasts  of  fate, 

Sunk  on  the  earth,  defaced  its  lovely  form, 

Unless  your  shelter  ward  the  impending  storm. 


490  TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON. 

Our  second  Right  —  but  needless  here  is  caution  ; 
Fo  keep  that  right  inviolate ’s  the  fashion ; 

Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him, 

Fie ’d  die  before  he ’d  wrong  it  —  ’t  is  Decorum. 
There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polished  days, 

A  time  when  rough  rude  man  had  naughty  ways  ■, 
Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk,  kick°  up  a  riot, 
Nay,  even  thus  invade  a  lady’s  quiet. 

Now,  thank  our  stars  !  these  Gothic  times  are  fled; 
Now,  well-bred  men — and  you  are  all  well-bred  — 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the  gainers j 
Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  manners. 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our  dearest, 
That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts  the  nearest, 
Which  even  the  Rights  of  Kings  in  low  prostration 
Most  humbly  own  —  ’t  is  dear,  dear  Admiration  ! 

In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move  ; 
There  taste  that  life  of  life  —  immortal  love. 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations,  airs, 

’Gainst  such  an  host  what  flinty  savage  dares _ 

When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her  charms, 
Who  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings  and  truce  with  constitutions, 
W  ith  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions  : 

Let  majesty  your  first  attention  summon, 

Ah  !  (,‘a  ira  !  the  majesty  of  woman  ! 

— • — 


EXTEMPORE  ON  SOME  COMMEMORATIONS  OF 

THOMSON. 

[)OST  thou  not  rise,  indignant  shade, 

And  smile  wi’  spurning  scorn, 


TO  MISS  FONTENELLE.  491 

When  they  wha  wad  hae  starved  thy  life, 
Thy  senseless  turf  adorn  ! 

Helpless,  alane,  thou  elamb  the  brae, 

Wi’  mickle,  mickle  toil, 

And  claught  th’  unfading  garland  there, 

Thy  sair-won,  rightful  spoil. 

And  wear  it  there  !  and  call  aloud 
This  axiom  undoubted  — 

Would  thou  hae  nobles’  patronage, 

“  First  learn  to  live  without  it !  ” 

To  whom  hae  much,  shall  yet  be  given, 

Is  every  great  man’s  faith  ; 

But  he  the  helpless,  needless  wretch, 

Shall  lose  the  mite  he  hath. 

— ♦ — 

TO  MISS  FONTENELLE,  ON  SEEING  HER  IN  A 
FAVOURITE  CHARACTER. 

Q  WEET  naivete  of  feature, 

Simple,  wild,  enchanting  elf, 

Not  to  thee,  but  thanks  to  Nature, 

Thou  art  acting  but  thyself. 

Wert  thou  awkward,  stiff,  affected, 
Spurning  nature,  torturing  art, 

Loves  and  graces  all  rejected, 

Then  indeed  thou  ’dst  act  a  part. 


492 


TIIE  LEA-RIG. 


THE  LEA-RIG. 

Tune —  The  Lea-Rig. 

HEN  o’er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 


T  T  Tells  bughtin’-time  is  near,  my  jo  ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrowed  field 
Return  sae  dowf  and  weary  O ; 

Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks 
AYT  dew  are  hanging  clear,  niv  jo, 

I’ll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I ’d  rove,  and  ne’er  be  eerie  O, 

If  through  that  glen  I  gaed  to  thee, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

Although  the  night  were  ne’er  sae  wild, 
And  I  were  ne’er  sae  weary  O, 

1  ’d  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

The  hunter  lo’es  the  morning  sun, 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo  ; 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen, 

Along  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo  ; 

Gie  me  the  hour  o’  gloamin’  gray, 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery  O, 

To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS.  493 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 

rpiIERE  ’S  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon 
glen, 

He ’s  the  king  o’  guid  fellows  and  wale  o’  auld 
men ; 

lie  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and  kine, 
And  ae  bonny  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 

She ’s  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May ; 

She  s  sweet  as  the  evening  amang  the  new  hay  ; 
As  blithe  and  as  artless  as  the  lambs  on  the  lea. 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  ee. 

But  oli  !  she ’s  an  heiress,  auld  Robin ’s  a  laird, 
And  my  daddie  has  nought  but  a  cot-house  and 
yard ; 

A  wooer  like  me  maunna  hope  to  come  speed, 

The  wounds  I  must  hide  that  will  soon  be  my 
dead. 

The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings  me  nane  ; 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is  gane  ; 

I  wander  my  lane  like  a  night-troubled  ghaist, 

And  I  sigh  as  my  heart  it  wad  burst  in  my  breast. 

O  had  she  but  been  of  a  lower  degree, 

I  then  might  hae  hoped  she  wad  smiled  upon  me  ! 
O  how  past  descriving  had  then  been  my  bliss, 

As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express  ! 

VOL.  ii.  10 


494 


/>  CN  CAN  GRAY. 

DUNCAN  GRAY. 

r^UNCAN  Gray  cam  licre  to  woo, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’ ’t  ! 

On  blithe  Yule-night  when  we  vrere  fou 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’ ’t ! 

Maggie  coost  her  head  fu’  high, 

Looked  asklent  and  unco  skeijrh, 

Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh ; 

11a,  ha,  the  wooing  o’ ’t ! 

Duncan  flecched,  and  Duncan  prayed  ; 
Ha,  ha,  etc. ; 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

Ha,  ha,  etc. 

Duncan  sighed  baith  out  and  in, 

Gret  his  een  baith  bleert  and  blin\ 

Spak  o’  lowpin’  owre  a  linn  ; 

Ha,  ha,  etc. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

Ha,  ha,  etc. ; 

Slighted  love  is  sail*  to  bide, 

Ha,  ha,  etc. 

Shall  T,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ? 

She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  ' 

Ila,  ha,  etc. 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ila,  ha,  etc. ; 

Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  heal, 

Ha,  ha,  etc. 


A  HEALTH  TO  THEM  THAT'S  A  WA  .  495 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 

O  O' 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings; 

O  O  i 

And  oh,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things  ! 

Ha,  ha,  etc. 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o’  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  etc. ; 

Maggie’s  was  a  piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  etc.  ; 

Duncan  couldna  be  her  death, 

Swelling  pity  smoored  his  wrath  ; 

Now  they  ’re  crouse  and  canty  baith  ; 

Ha,  ha,  etc. 

— « — 

HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  THEM  THAT’S  AW  A’. 

Tune  —  Here ’s  a  Health  to  them  that ’ s  awa) 

TXERE ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’, 

11  Here ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’ ; 

And  wha  winna  wish  guid-luck  to  our  cause, 

Mav  never  guid-luck  be  their  fa’ ! 

It’s  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It ’s  guid  to  be  honest  and  true, 

It ’s  guid  to  support  Caledonia’s  cause, 

And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 

Here ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’, 

Here ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’ ; 

Here’s  a  health  to  Charlie,  the  chief  o’  the  clan, 
Although  that  his  band  be  sma’. 

May  Liberty  meet  wi’  success  ! 


496  SONG. 

May  Prudence  protect  her  frae  evil ! 

May  tyrants  and  Tyranny  tine  in  the  mist, 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil ! 

Here ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’, 

Here ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’ ; 

Here ’s  a  health  to  Tanunie,  the  Norland  laddie, 
That  lives  at  the  lug  o’  the  law  ! 

Here ’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read  ! 

Here ’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write  ! 

There ’s  nane  ever  feared  that  the  truth  should  be 
heard, 

But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indite. 

Here ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’, 

Here ’s  a  health  to  them  that ’s  awa’ ; 

Here ’s  Chieftain  M’Leod,  a  chieftain  worth  gowd, 
Though  bred  amang  mountains  o’  snaw ! 

Here ’s  friends  on  both  sides  of  the  Forth  ! 

And  friends  on  both  sides  of  the  Tweed  ! 

And  wha  wad  betray  Old  Albion’s  rights, 

May  they  never  eat  of  her  bread  ! 

— • — 

SONG. 

Tune —  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen. 

/"A  POORTITII  cauld,  and  restless  love, 

Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye  ; 

Yet  poortith  a’  I  could  forgive, 

An ’t  were  na  for  my  Jeanie. 

O  why  should  Fate  sic  pleasure  have 
Life’s  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 


SONG. 


497 


Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love, 

Depend  on  Fortune’s  shining? 

This  warld’s  wealth,  when  I  think  on 
Its  pride,  and  a’  the  lave  o’ ’t, 

Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man 

That  lie  should  be  the  slave  o’ ’t  I 
O  why,  etc. 

Her  een  sae  bonny  blue  betray 
How  she  repays  my  passion ; 

But  prudence  is  her  o’erword  aye ; 

She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion  ! 

O  why,  etc. 

O  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 

O  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 

O  why,  etc. 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter’s  fate  ! 1 

He  wooes  his  simple  dearie ; 

The  silly  bogles,  wealth  and  state, 

Can  never  make  them  eerie. 

O  why,  etc. 

1  Tn  the  original  manuscript,  “IIow  blest  tV  wild-wood  In 
diau’s  fate.” 


498  GALA  WATER. 

GALA  WATER.1 

rP IIE RE’S  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 
That  wander  through  the  blooming  heather ; 
But  Yarrow  braes,  nor  Ettrick  sliaws, 

Can  match  the  lads  o’  Gala  Water. 

But  there  is  ane,  a  secret  ane, 

Aboon  them  a’  I  lo’e  him  better ; 

And  I  ’ll  be  his  and  he  ’ll  be  mine, 

The  bonny  lad  o’  Gala  Water. 

Althouo’h  his  daddie  was  nae  laird, 

And  though  I  hae  na  meikle  tocher ; 

O 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love, 

We  ’ll  tent  our  flocks  by  Gala  Water. 

l  Some  years  before  composing  the  present  beautiful  song, 
Burns  had  given  to  the  Scots  Musical  Museum  the  following 
improved  version  of  the  original  homely  ballad,  which,  it  may 
be  mentioned,  referred  not  to  the  lads,  but  to  a  lass  of  Gala 
W  ater :  — 

Braw,  braw  lads  of  Gala  Water, 

0  braw  lads  of  Gala  Water  ! 

I  ’ll  kilt  my  coats  aboon  my  knee, 

And  follow  my  love  through  the  water. 

•  Sae  fair  her  hair,  sae  brent  her  brow, 

Sae  bonny  blue  her  een,  my  dearie. 

Sae  white  her  teeth,  sae  sweet  her  mou’,  — 

The  mail-  1  kiss  she  !s  aye  my  dearie. 

O'er  yon  bank  and  o’er  yon  brae, 

O'er  yon  moss  amang  the  heather, 

I’ll  kilt  my  coats  aboon  my  knee, 

And  follow  my  love  through  the  water. 

Dowm  amang  the  broom,  the  broom. 

Down  amang  the  broom,  my  dearie. 

The  lassie  lost  her  silken  snood, 

That  cost  her  monie  a  blirt  and  blear  ee. 


SONNET.  499 

It  ne’er  was  wealth,  it  ne’er  was  wealth, 

That  coft  contentment,  peace,  or  pleasure ; 

The  bands  and  bliss  o’  mutual  love, 

0  that ’s  the  chiefest  warld’s  treasure  ! 

- 4 - 

SONNET: 

WHITTEN  OX  THE  25tH  JANUARY,  179^,  THE  BIRTHDAY 
OF  THE  AUTHOR,  OX  HEARING  A  THRUSH  SIXG  IX  A 
MORXING-WAEK. 

CING  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough, 
^  Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain ; 

See  aged  Winter,  ’mid  his  surly  reign, 

At  thy  blithe  carol  clears  his  furrowed  brow. 

So  in  lone  Poverty’s  dominion  drear, 

Sits  meek  Content  with  light  unanxious  heart ; 
Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them  part, 
Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 

I  thank  thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day ! 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yon  orient 
skies  ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys, 

What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away  ! 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  Poverty  and  Care, 

The  mite  high  Heaven  bestowed,  that  mite  with 
thee  i  ’ll  share. 


500 


LORD  GREGORY. 


LORD  GREGORY. 

OMLRK,  mirk  is  tliis  midnight  hour. 

And  loud  the  tempest’s  roar ; 

A  waefu’  wanderer  seeks  thy  tower, 
Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door. 


An  exile  frae  her  father’s  ha’, 
And  a’  for  loving  thee  ; 

At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw, 
If  love  it  may  na  be. 


Lord  Gregory,  mind’st  thou  not  the  grove 
By  bonny  Irwine  side, 

Where  first  I  owned  that  virgin  love 
I  lam*,  lang  had  denied  ? 

IIow  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow 
Thou  wad  for  aye  be  mine ; 

And  my  fond  heart,  itsei’  sae  true, 

It  ne’er  mistrusted  thine. 


Hard  is  thy  heart,  Lord  Gregory, 
And  flinty  is  thy  breast : 

Thou  dart  of  heaven  that  flashest  by, 
O  wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above, 
Your  willing  victim  see  ! 

But  spare  and  pardon  my  fause  love, 
His  wrangs  to  Heaven  and  me ! 


OPEN  TI1E  DOOR  TO  ME ,  OH!  501 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 


TTERE  awa’,  there  awa’,  wandering AVi Hi e, 

Now  tired  Avith  wandering,  baud  aAva’  hame; 
Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ae  only  dearie, 

And  tell  me  thou  bring’st  me  my  AVillie  the 
same. 


Loud  bleAv  the  canid  winter  winds  at  our  parting, 
It  Avasna  the  blast  brought  the  tear  in  my  ee ; 
Noav  welcome  the  simmer,  and  welcome  my 
AVillie  — 

The  simmer  to  nature,  my  AAbllie  to  me. 

Ye  hurricanes,  rest  in  the  cave  of  your  slumbers, 

0  Iioav  your  Avild  horrors  a  lover  alarms ! 
AAvaken,  ye  breezes  !  toav  gently,  ye  billoAvs  ! 

And  Avaft  my  dear  laddie  anee  mair  to  my 
arms ! 

But  if  he ’s  forgotten  his  faithfulest  Nannie, 

O  still  floAv  betAveen  us,  thou  Avide-roaring  mam  ! 
May  I  ne.A'er  see  it,  may  I  never  troAv  it, 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  AVillie ’s  my  am  ! 


OPEN  THE  DOOR  TO  ME,  OH  ! 


/"A  OPEN  the  door,  some  pity  to  sheAV, 
^  O  open  the  door  to  me,  oh  ! 


502  YOUNG  JESSIE. 

Though  thou  hast  been  false,  I  ’ll  ever  prove  true, 
O  open  the  door  to  me,  oh  ! 

“  Canid  is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek, 

But  caulder  thy  love  for  me,  oh  ! 

The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart, 

Is  nought  *to  my  pains  frae  thee,  oh  ! 

“  The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  wave, 
And  time  is  setting  with  me,  oh  ! 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell !  for  mair 
I  ’ll  ne’er  trouble  them,  nor  thee,  oh  !  ” 

She  has  opened  the  door,  she  has  opened  it  wide  * 
She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  oh  ! 

“  My  true  love  !  ”  she  cried,  and  sank  down  by 
his  side, 

Never  to  rise  again,  oh  ! 

— « — 


YOUNG  JESSIE. 

Tune  —  Bonny  Dundee. 


And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o’  the  Ayr  ; 

y  i 

But  by  the  sweet  side  o’  the  Nith’s  winding  river, 
Are  level's  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair. 


To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland  all  over  ; 
To  equal  young  Jessie  you  seek  it  in  vain  ; 


THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN . 


503 


Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 

And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain. 

O  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay  dewy  morning, 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close  ; 

But  in  the  fair  presence  o’  lovely  young  Jessie 
Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 

Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  ensnaring, 
Enthroned  in  her  een  he  delivers  his  law  ; 

And  still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a  stranger  — 
Her  modest  demeanour’s  the  jewel  of  a’! 


♦ 


THE  SOLDIER’S  RETURN. 

Tone —  The  Mill ,  Mill  O  ! 

HEN  wild  War’s  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 


And  gentle  Peace  returning, 

Wi’  monie  a  sweet  babe  fatherless, 
And  monie  a  widow  mourning,1 
I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 

Where  lano;  I ’d  been  a  lodger, 

My  humble  knapsack  a’  my  wealth  — 

■  A  poor  but  honest  sodger. 

A  leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast, 
My  hand  unstained  wi’  plunder  ; 
And  for  fair  Scotia,  hame  again, 

1  Variatiou  — 

•‘And  eyes  again  with  pleasure  beamed, 
That  had  been  bleared  with  mourning.’'' 


504 


THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN . 


I  cheery  on  did  wander. 

I  thought  upon  the  banks  o’  Coyl, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy  ; 

I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile 
That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

At  length  I  reached  the  bonny  glen 
Where  early  life  I  sported  ; 

I  passed  the  mill,  and  tryst  ing-thorn, 
Where  Nancy  aft  I  courted : 

Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid 
Down  by  her  mother’s  dwelling  ! 

And  turned  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 
That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 

Wi’  altered  voice,  quoth  I,  “  Sweet  lass, 
Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn’s  blossom, 

O  happy,  happy  may  he  be, 

That ’s  dearest  to  thy  bosom  ! 

My  purse  is  light,  I ’ve  far  to  gang, 

And  fain  would  be  thy  lodger  ; 

1  ’ve  served  my  king  and  country  lang  — 
Take  pity  on  a  sodger  !  ” 

Sae  wistfully  she  gazed  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever ; 

Quo’  she,  “  A  sodger  anee  I  lo’ed, 

Forget  him  shall  I  never  : 

Our  humble  cot  and  liamely  fare 
Ye  freely  shall  partake  o’ ’t ; 

Tl> at  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade. 

Ye  ’re  welcome  for  the  sake  o’ ’t.” 


THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 

She  gazed  —  she  reddened  like  a  rose  — 
Syne  pale  like  ony  lily ; 

She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

“  Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  V  ” 

“  By  Him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky, 

By  whom  true  love ’s  regarded, 

I  am  the  man  ;  and  thus  may  still 
True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

“  The  wars  are  o’er,  and  I ’m  come  liame, 
And  find  thee  still  true-hearted  ! 

Though  poor  in  gear,  we  ’re  rich  in  love, 
And  mair  we  ’se  ne’er  be  parted.” 

Quo’  she,  “  My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  mailen  plenished  fairly ; 

And  come,  my  faithfu’  sodger  lad, 

Thou  ’rt  welcome  to  it  dearly.” 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main. 
The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor  ; 

But  glory  is  the  sodger’s  prize, 

The  sodger’s  wealth  is  honour. 

The  brave  poor  sodger  ne’er  despise, 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger ; 

Remember  he ’s  his  country’s  stay 
In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


506  YESTREEN  1  GOT  A  PINT  OF  [VINE. 

MEG  O’  THE  MILL. 

Air  —  O  Bonny  Lass,  will  you  lie  in  a  Barrack  ? 

YA  KEN  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
^  And  ken  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
She  has  gotten  a  coof  wi’  a  claut  o’  siller, 

And  broken  the  heart  o’  the  barley  Miller. 

The  Miller  was  strappin’,  the  Miller  was  ruddy, 

A  heart  like  a  lord,  and  a  hue  like  a  lady ; 

The  Laird  was  a  widdiefu’,  bleerit  knurl ; 

She ’s  left  the  guidfellow  and  ta’en  the  churl. 

The  Miller  he  hecht  her  a  heart  leal  and  loving , 

O  7 

The  Laird  did  address  her  wi’  matter  more  moving, 
A  fine  pacing  horse  wi’  a  clear  chained  bridle, 

A  whip  by  her  side,  and  a  bonny  side-saddle. 

O  wae  on  the  siller,  it  is  sae  prevailing ! 

And  wae  on  the  love  that  is  fixed  on  a  inailen  ! 

A  tocher ’s  nae  word  in  a  true  lover’s  parle, 

But  gie  me  my  love,  and  a  fig  for  the  warl ! 

- — ♦ — 

YESTREEN  I  GOT  A  PINT  OF  WINE. 

,  yestreen  1  got  a  pint  of  wine, 

A  place  where  body  saw  na  ; 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  of  mine 
The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 


YOU'RE  WELCOME  TO  DESPOTS.  507 

The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness, 

Rejoicing  o’er  his  manna, 

Was  naething  to  my  hinny  bliss 
Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 

Ye  monarchs,  tak  the  east  and  west, 

Frae  Indus  to  Savannah  : 

Gie  me  within  my  straining  grasp 
The  melting  form  of  Anna. 

There  I  ’ll  despise  imperial  charms, 

An  empress  or  sultana, 

’While  dying  raptures  in  her  arms 
I  give  and  take  with  Anna  ! 

Awa’,  thou  flaunting  god  o’  day ! 

Awa’,  thou  pale  Diana  ! 

Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray, 

When  I ’m  to  meet  my  Anna. 

Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  Night ! 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  withdrawn  a’ ; 

And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 
My  transports  wi’  my  Anna ! 

— « — 

YOU’RE  WELCOME  TO  DESPOTS,  DUMOURIER. 

XT  OU  ’RF  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier  ; 

*  You  ’re  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier. 

How  does  Dampierre  do  ? 

Ay,  and  Beurnonville  too  ? 

"Why  did  they  not  come  along  with  you,  Du¬ 
mourier  ? 


508  LAST  TIME  I  CAME  O'ER  THE  MOOR 


I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier  ; 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier  ; 

I  will  fight  France  with  you, 

I  will  take  my  chance  with  you ; 

By  my  soul,  I  ’ll  dance  a  dance  with  you,  Du 
mourier. 


Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier ; 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier ; 

Then  let  us  fight  about, 

Till  freedom’s  spark  is  out, 

Then  we  ’ll  be  damned,  no  doubt  —  Dumourier. 


THE  LAST  TIME  I  CAME  O’ER  THE  MOOR. 


'piIE  last  time  I  came  o’er  the  moor, 
And  left  Maria’s  dwelling, 

O7 

What  throes,  what  tortures  passing  cure, 
W  ere  in  my  bosom  swelling ; 
Condemned  to  see  my  rival’s  reign, 
While  I  in  secret  languish ; 

To  feel  a  fire  in  every  vein, 

Yet  dare  not  speak  my  anguish. 


Love’s  veriest  wretch,  despairing,  I 
Fain,  fain  my  crime  would  cover:- 
The  unweeting  groan,  the  bursting  sigh, 
Betray  the  guilty  lover. 

I  know  my  doom  must  be  despair, 

Thou  wilt  nor  canst  relieve  me ; 

But,  O  Maria,  hear  my  prayer, 

For  pity’s  sake,  forgive  me  ! 


BLITHE  HAE  I  BEEN  ON  YON  HILL. 

The  music  of  thy  tongue  I  heard, 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslaved  me ; 

I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  feared, 
Till  fears  no  more  had  saved  me. 
The  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast 
The  wheeling  torrent  viewing, 

In  circling  horrors  yields  at  last 
In  overwhelming  ruin  ! 

— « — 


BLITHE  HAE  I  BEEN  ON  YON  HILL. 
Tune  —  Liggeram  Cosh. 

BLITHE  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill, 
As  the  lambs  before  me  ; 
Careless  ilka  thought  and  free, 

As  the  breeze  flew  o’er  me  : 

Now  nae  longer  sport  and  play, 
Mirth  or  sang  can  please  me ; 
Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 

Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 

Heavy,  heavy  is  the  task, 

Hopeless  love  declaring ; 
Trembling,  I  dow  nocht  but  glower, 
Sighing,  dumb,  despairing l 
If  she  winna  ease  the  thraws 
In  my  bosom  swelling, 
Underneath  the  grass-green  sod, 
Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 

11 


509 


VOL.  II. 


510  LOGAN  BRAES. 

LOGAN  BRAES. 

Tune — Logan  Water. 

LOGAN,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie’s  bride  f 
xAnd  years  sinsyne  hae  o’er  us  run, 

Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 

But  now  thy  flowery  banks  appear 
Like  drumlie  Winter,  dark  and  drear, 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Again  the  merry  month  o’  May 
Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay ; 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers, 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flowers  ; 
Blithe  Morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye, 

And  Evening’s  tears  are  tears  of  joy : 

My  soul,  delightless,  a’  surveys, 

While  Willie ’s  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Within  yon  milk  white  hawthorn-bush, 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush  ; 

Her  faithfu’  mate  will  share  her  toil, 

Or  wi’  his  songs  her  cares  beguile : 

But  I  wi’  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 

Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer, 

Pass  widowed  nights  and  joyless  days, 
While  Willie ’s  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

o 

0  wae  upon  you,  men  o’  state, 

Plrat  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate  ! 


BONNY  JEAN. 

As  ye  make  many  a  fond  heart  mourn, 
Sac  may  it  on  your  heads  return  ! 

How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow’s  tear,  the  orphan’s  cry  ?  1 
But  soon  may  peace  bring  happy  days, 
And  Willie  hanie  to  Logan  braes  ! 


511 


0  WERE  MY  LOVE  YON  LILAC  FAIR. 

/"A  WERE  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

" -  '  Wi’  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring  ; 
And  I,  a  bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing  ! 

How  I  wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  ! 

But  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing 

When  youthfu’  May  its  bloom  renewed. 


BONNY  JEAN. 

rpHERE  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair, 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen ; 
When  a’  the  fairest  maids  were  met, 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonny  Jean. 

And  aye  she  wrought  her  mammie’s  wark. 
And  aye  she  sang  sae  merrilie  : 

Originally  — 

“  Ye  mind  na,  ’mid  your  cruel  joys. 

The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan’s  cries.’* 


512 


BONNY  JEAN. 


The  blithest  bird  upon  the  bush 

Had  ne’er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 

But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  little  lintwhite’s  nest ; 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers, 

And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad, 

The  flower  and  pride  of  a’  the  glen  ; 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 

And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 

He  gaed  wi’  Jeanie  to  the  tryste, 

He  danced  wi’  Jeanie  on  the  down ; 

And  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist, 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stown. 

As  in  the  bosom  o’  the  stream 

The  moonbeam  dwells  at  dewy  e'en, 

So  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love 
Within  the  breast  o’  bonny  Jean. 

And  now  she  works  her  mammie’s  warlc, 
And  aye  she  sighs  wi’  care  and  pain ; 

Yet  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 

Or  what  wad  male  her  weel  again. 

But  did  na  Jeanie’s  heart  loup  light. 

And  did  na  joy  blink  in  her  ee, 

As  Robie  tauld  a  tale  o’  love 
Ae  e'enin’  on  the  lily  lea  ? 


PIIILLIS  THE  FAIR. 


513 


The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 

The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove ; 
Ilis  cheek  to  hers  lie  fondly  prest, 

And  whispered  thus  his  tale  o’  love : 

“  O  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo’e  thee  dear ; 

O  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me  ? 

Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie’s  cot, 
And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi’  me  ? 

“  At  barn  or  byre  thou  slialt  na  drudge, 
Or  naethins  else  to  trouble  thee ; 

But  stray  ainang  the  heather-bells, 

And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi’  me.” 

Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do  ? 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  11a ; 

At  length  she  blushed  a  sweet  consent, 
And  love  was  aye  between  them  twa 


♦ 


PHILLIS  THE  FAIR. 


Tune  —  Robin  Adair. 

HILE  larks  with  little  wing 


*  ’  Fanned  the  pure  air, 
Tasting  the  breathing  spring, 
Forth  I  did  fare  : 

Gay  the  sun’s  golden  eye 
Peeped  o’er  the  mountains  high  ; 
Such  thy  morn  !  did  I  cry, 
Phillis  the  fair. 


514 


HAD  I  A  CAVE. 


In  each  bird’s  careless  song 
Glad  did  I  share  ; 

While  yon  wild-flowers  among, 
Chance  led  me  there  : 

Sweet  to  the  opening  day, 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray ; 
Such  thy  bloom  !  did  I  say, 
Phillis  the  fair. 

Down  in  a  shady  walk 
Doves  cooing  were ; 

I  marked  the  cruel  hawk 
Caught  in  a  snare  : 

So  kind  may  fortune  be, 

Such  make  his  destiny, 

He  who  would  injure  thee, 
Phillis  the  fair. 


HAD  I  A  CAVE. 

Tune  —  Robin  Adair. 

Had  i  a  cave'on  some  wild  distant  shore, 

Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves’  dashin 
roar, 

There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 

There  seek  my  lost  repose, 

Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close. 

Ne’er  to  wake  more  ! 

Falsest  of  womankind  !  canst  thou  declare 
All  thy  fond-plighted  vows  fleeting  as  air ! 


BY  ALLAN  STREAM.  515 

To  thy  new  lover  hie, 

Laugh  o’<?r  thy  perj  ury ; 

Then  in  thy  bosom  try 
What  peace  is  there  ! 


BY  ALLAN  STREAM  I  CHANCED  TO  ROVE. 

Tune  —  Allan  Water. 

Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove, 

While  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Benledi ; 

The  winds  were  whispering  through  the  grove, 
•The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready. 

I  listened  to  a  lover’s  sano;, 

And  thought  on  youthfu’  pleasures  monie ; 

And  aye  the  wild-Avood  echoes  rano-  — 

Ohj  dearly  do  I  love  thee,  Annie ! 

Oh,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie ; 

Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour, 

The  place  and  time  I  met  my  dearie ! 

Her  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast, 

She,  sinking,  said  :  “  I ’m  thine  for  ever  !  ” 

While  monie  a  kiss  the  seal  imprest, 

The  sacred  vow,  we  ne’er  should  sever. 

The  haunt  o’  Spring ’s  the  primrose  brae, 

The  Simmer  joys  the  Hocks  to  follow  ; 

How  cheery  through  her  shortening  day, 

Is  Autumn,  in  her  weeds  o’  yellow ! 


516  WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL  COME  TO  YOU 


But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart, 

Or  chain  the  soul  in  speechless  pleasure  ? 
Or  through  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart, 
Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom’s  treasure  ? 


- * - 

WHISTLE,  AND  I’LL  COME  TO  YOU,  MY  LAD 

Tune —  Whistle ,  and  I'll  come  to  you ,  my  Lad. 

L~\  WHISTLE,  and  I  ’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad, 

O  whistle,  and  I  ’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad ; 
Though  father  and  mither  and  a’  should  gae  mad, 
O  whistle,  and  I  ’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

But  warily  tent,  when  ye  come  to  court  me, 
AncPcome  na  unless  the  back-yett  be  a-jee; 

Syne  up  the  back-stile,  and  let  naebody  see, 

And  come  as  ye  were  na  coinin’  to  me. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene’er  ye  meet  me, 
Gang  by  me  as  though  that  ye  cared  nae  a  Hie  ; 
But  steal  me  a  blink  o’  your  bonny  black  ee. 

Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin’  at  me. 

Aye  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  lor  me, 

And  whiles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a  wee ; 

But  court  na  anither,  though  jokin’  ye  be, 

For  fear  that  she  wile  your  fancy  frae  me. 


AD  OWN  WINDING  NITH. 


517 


ADOWN  WINDING  NITH  I  DID  WANDER. 

Tune —  The  Mucking  o’  Geor die's  Eyre. 

\  DOWN  winding  Nith  I  did  wander, 

To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  spring ; 

Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander, 

Of  Phillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa’  wi’  your  belles  and  your  beauties, 

They  never  wi’  her  can  compare ; 

Whaever  has  met  wi’  my  Phillis, 

Has  met  wi’  the  queen  o’  the  fair. 

The  daisy  amused  my  fond  fancy, 

So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild ; 

Thou  emblem,  said  I,  o’  my  Phillis, 

For  she  is  Simplicity’s  child. 

The  rose-bud ’s  the  blush  o’  my  charmer, 

Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when ’t  is  prest : 

How  fair  and  how  pure  is  the  lily,  — 

But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast. 

Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  in  the  arbour, 

They  ne’er  wi’  my  Phillis  can  vie  : 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  o’  the  woodbine, 

Its  dew-drop  o’  diamond  her  eye. 

Her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning, 

That  wakes  through  the  green-spreading  grove, 


518  COME ,  LET  ME  TAKE  THEE. 

W  hen  Phoebus  peeps  over  the  mountains, 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 

But,  beauty,  how  frail  and  how  fleeting  — 
The  bloom  of  a  fine  summer’s  day  ! 
While  worth  in  the  mind  o’  my  Phillis 
Will  flourish  without  a  decay. 


COME,  LET  ME  TAKE  THEE  TO  MY  BREAST. 

Air —  Cauld  Kail. 

^jOME,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 
And  pledge  we  ne’er  shall  sunder ; 

And  I  shall  spurn  as  vilest  dust 
The  warld’s  wealth  and  grandeur. 

And  do  I  hear  my  Jeanie  own 
That  equal  transports  move  her  ? 

I  ask  for  dearest  life  alone 
That  I  may  live  to  love  her. 

Thus  in  my  arms,  wi’  all  thy  charms, 

I  clasp  my  countless  treasure ; 

I  ’ll  seek  nae  mair  o’  heaven  to  share, 

Than  sic  a  moment’s  pleasure : 

And  by  thy  een  sae  bonny  blue, 

I  swear  I ’m  thine  for  ever  ! 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never  I 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 


519 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 

Tone  —  Dainty  Davie. 

"VT  OW  rosy  May  comes  in  wi’  flowers, 

To  deck  her  gay,  green-spreading  bowers ; 
And  now  come  in  my  happy  hours, 

To  wander  wi’  my  Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 

Dainty  Davie,  dainty  Davie  ; 

There  I  ’ll  spend  the  day  wi’  you, 

My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 

The  crystal  waters  round  us  la’, 

The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a’, 

The  scented  breezes  round  us  blaw, 
A-wandering  wi’  my  Davie. 

When  purple  Morning  starts  the  hare, 

To  steal  upon  her  early  fare, 

Then  through  the  dews  I  will  repair, 

To  meet  my  faitlifu’  Davie. 

When  Day,  expiring  in  the  west, 

The  curtain  draws  o’  Nature’s  rest, 

I  flee  to  his  arms  I  lo’e  best, 

And  that ’s  my  ain  dear  Davie. 


520 


BRUCE  AT  BANNOCKBURN. 


BRUCE  TO  HIS  MEN  AT  BANNOCKBURN. 

Tune  —  Hey,  tuttie  taitie. 

Q  COTS,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

^  Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victory  ! 

Now ’s  the  day,  and  now ’s  the  hour ; 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lour  ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power  — 
Chains  and  slavery  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a  coward’s  grave  ? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king:  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa’, 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 

Liberty ’s  in  every  blow  !  — 

Let  us  do  or  die  ! 


DOWN  THE  BURN ,  DAVIE .  521 

BEHOLD  THE  HOUR! 

Tune  —  Oran  Gaoil. 

"DEHOLD  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive  ! 

Thou  goest,  thou  darling  of  my  heart  ! 
Severed  from  thee,  can  I  survive  ? 

But  fate  has  willed,  and  we  must  part. 

I  ’ll  often  greet  this  surging  swell, 

Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail : 

“  E’en  here  I  took  the  last  farewell ; 

There,  latest  marked  her  vanished  sail.” 

Along  the  solitary  shore, 

While  Hitting  sea-fowl  round  me  erv, 

Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I  ’ll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye. 

Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I  ’ll  say, 

Where  now  my  Nancy’s  path  may  be ! 

While  through  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray, 
Oh,  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ? 


DOWN  THE  BURN,  DAYIE. 

A  S  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 
And  through  the  flowery  dale, 

Ilis  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  aye  the  tale. 


522  THOU  HAST  LEFT  ME  EVER. 

With  “  Mary,  when  shall  we  return, 
Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ?  ” 

Quoth  Mary :  “  Love,  I  like  the  burn, 
And  aye  shall  follow  you.” 


♦ 


THOU  HAST  LEFT  ME  EVER. 

Tune  —  Fee  him ,  Father. 


'"THOU  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie  !  thou  hast  left 
me  ever  ; 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie  !  thou  hast  left  me 
ever : 

Aften  hast  thou  vowed  that  death  only  should  us 
sever ; 

Now  thou  ’st  left  thy  lass  for  aye  —  I  maun  see 
thee  never,  Jamie, 

I  ’ll  see  thee  never. 


Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie !  thou  hast  me 
forsaken  ; 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie !  thou  hast  me 
forsaken  : 

Thou  canst  love  anither  jo,  while  my  heart  is 
breaking  ; 

Soon  my  weary  een  I’ll  close — never  mair  to 
waken,  Jamie, 

Ne’er  mair  to  waken  ! 


« 


BANNOCKBURN. 


523 


BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT  BRUCE’S  ADDRESS  TO  PIIS  ARMY. 

Q  COTS,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled 
^  Scots,  wliam  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  glorious  victory  ! 

Now ’s  the  day,  and  now ’s  the  hour  ; 
See  the  front  o’  battle  lour  ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power  — - 
Edward  !  chains  and  slavery  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a  coward’s  grave  ? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor  !  coward  !  turn,  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa’, 
Caledonian  !  on  wi’  me  ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  —  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ' 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 

Liberty ’s  in  every  blow  ! 

Forward  !  let  us  do  or  die  ! 


524 


WHERE  ARE  THE  JOYS? 


WHERE  ARE  'THE  JOYS? 

Tune  —  Saw  yt  my  Father  ? 

XT/' HE  RE  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the  morn 
ing> 

That  danced  to  the  lark’s  early  song  ? 

Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my  wandering, 
At  evening  the  wild-woods  among  ? 

No  more  a-winding  the  course  of  yon  river, 

And  marking  sweet  flowerets  so  fair ; 

No  more  I  trace  the  light  footsteps  of  pleasure, 
But  sorrow  and  sad  sighing  care. 

Is  it  that  Summer ’s  forsaken  our  valleys, 

And  grim,  surly  Winter  is  near  ? 

No,  no  !  the  bees  humming  round  the  gay  roses, 
Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 

Fain  would  I  hide  what  I  fear  to  discover, 

Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I  known, 

All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  in  my  bosom 
Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny,  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me ;  my  griefs  are  immortal ; 

Not  hope  dare  a  comfort  bestow : 

Come,  then,  enamoured  and  fond  of  my  anguish, 
Enjoyment  I  ’ll  seek  in  my  wo. 


MY  SPOUSE  NANCY.  525 

MY  SPOUSE  NANCY. 

Tune  —  My  Jo  Janet. 

TTUSBAND,  husband,  cease  your  strife. 
No  longer  idly  rave,  sir ; 

Though  I  am  your  wedded  wife, 

Yet  I  am  not  your  slave,  sir.” 

“  One  of  us  two  must  still  obey, 

Nancy,  Nancy 

Is  it  man,  or  woman,  say, 

My  spouse,  Nancy  ?  ” 

“  If  ’t  is  still  the  lordly  word, 

Service  and  obedience, 

I’ll  desert  my  sovereign  lord, 

And  so  good-by  allegiance  !  ” 

“  Sad  will  I  be,  so  bereft, 

Nancy,  Nancy  ; 

Yet  I  ’ll  try  to  make  a  shift, 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 

“  My  poor  heart  then  break  it  must, 

My  last  hour  I ’m  near  it : 

When  you  lay  me  in  the  dust, 

Think,  think  how  you  will  bear  it.*5 

“  I  will  hope  and  trust  in  Heaven, 

Nancy,  Nancy  ; 

Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given, 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 

VOL.  ii.  12 


MONODY. 


526 


“  Well,  sir,  from  the  silent  dead, 
Still  I  ’ll  try  to  daunt  you 
Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 
Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you.” 

“  I  ’ll  wed  another  like  my  dear, 
Nancy,  Nancy ; 

Then  all  hell  will  fly  for  fear. 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 


APOLOGY  TO  MR.  RIDDEL  FOR  A  RUDENESS 
OFFERED  HIS  WIFE. 

r  jPlIE  friend  whom  wild  from  Wisdom’s  way, 
The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send 
(Not  moony  madness  more  astray)  — 

Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend  ? 

Mine  was  th’  insensate  frenzied  part, 

Ah  !  why  should  I  such  scenes  outlive  ?  — 
Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart ! 

’T  is  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 

— « — 

MONODY 

ON  A  LADY  FAMED  FOR  HER  CAPRICE. 

TT  OW  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fired, 
1  1  How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouge  lately 
glistened ! 


MONODY.  527 

How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft  tired, 
How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flatterv  so  lis- 
tened  ! 

If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await, 

From  friendship  and  dearest  affection  removed, 
How  doubly  severer,  Eliza,  thy  fate, 

Thou  diedst  unwept,  as  thou  livedst  unloved. 

Loves,  Graces,  and  Virtues,  I  call  not  on  you  ; 

So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a  tear  ; 
But  come,  all  ye  offspring  of  Folly  so  true, 

And  flowers  let  us  cull  for  Eliza’s  cold  bier. 

We  ’ll  search  through  the  garden  for  each  silly 
flower, 

We  ’ll  roam  through  the  forest  for  each  idle  weed  ; 
But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower, 

For  none  e’er  approached  her  but  rued  the  rash 
deed. 

We  ’ll  sculpture  the  marble,  we  ’ll  measure  the 
lay;  . 

Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre  ; 

There  keen  Indignation  shall  dart  on  her  prey, 
Which  spurning  Contempt  shall  redeem  from 
his  ire. 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting  neglect, 

What  once  was  a  butterfly,  gay  in  life’s  beam 
Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  respect, 

Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem. 


528  EPISTLE  FROM  ESOPUS  TO  MARIA. 


EPISTLE  FROM  ESOPUS  TO  MARIA. 

TjMLOM  those  drear  solitudes  and  frowsy  cells, 
Where  infamy  with  sad  repentance  dwells  ; 
Where  turnkeys  make  the  jealous  portal  fast, 

And  deal  from  iron  hands  the  spare  repast ; 
Where  truant  ’prentices,  yet  young  in  sin, 

Blush  at  the  curious  stranger  peeping  in  ; 

Where  strumpets,  relics  of  the  drunken  roar, 
Resolve  to  drink,  nay,  half  to  whore  no  more  ; 
Where  tiny  thieves,  not  destined  yet  to  swing, 
Beat  hemp  for  others,  riper  for  the  string : 

From  these  dire  scenes  my  wretched  lines  I  date, 
To  tell  Maria  her  Esopus’  fate. 

“  Alas  !  I  feel  I  am  no  actor  here  !  ” 

’T  is  real  hangmen,  real  scourges  bear  ! 

Prepare,  Maria,  for  a  horrid  tale 

Will  turn  thy  very  rouge  to  deadly  pale  ; 

Will  make  thy  hair,  though  erst  from  gipsy  polled 
By  barber  woven,  and  by  barber  sold, 

Though  twisted  smooth  writh  Harry’s  nicest  care, 

Like  hoarv  bristles  to  erect  and  stare. 

%> 

The  hero  of  the  mimic  scene,  no  more 
I  start  in  Hamlet,  in  Othello  roar  ; 

Or  haughty  chieftain,  ’mid  the  din  of  arms, 

Tn  Highland  bonnet  woo  Malvina’s  charms ; 

While  sans  culottes  stoop  up  the  mountain  high, 
And  steal  from  me  Maria’s  prying  eye. 

Blest  Highland  bonnet !  once  my  proudest  dress, 
Now  prouder  still,  Maria’s  temples  press. 

I  see  her  wave  thy  towering  plumes  afar, 


EPISTLE  FROM  E SOP  US  TO  MARIA.  529 


And  call  each  coxcomb  to  the  wordv  war : 

%/  ' 

I  see  her  face  the  first  of  Ireland’s  sons, 

And  even  out-Irish  his  Hibernian  bronze ; 

The  crafty  colonel  leaves  the  tartaned  lines 
For  other  wars,  where  he  a  hero  shines  ; 

The  hopeful  youth,  in  Scottish  senate  bred, 

Who  owns  a  Bushby’s  heart  without  the  head, 
Comes  ’mid  a  string  of  coxcombs  to  display, 

That  veni,  vicli ,  vici,  is  his  way  ; 

The  shrinking  bard  adown  an  alley  skulks, 

And  dreads  a  meeting;  worse  than  Woolwich 
hulks ; 

(Though  there,  his  heresies  in  church  and  state 
Might  well  award  him  Muir  and  Palmer’s  fate :) 
Still  she  undaunted  reels  and  rattles  on, 

And  dares  the  public  like  a  noontide  sun. 

(What  scandal  called  Maria’s  jaunty  stagger, 

The  ricket  reeling  of  a  crooked  swagger  ? 

O  ou 

Whose  spleen  e’en  worse  than  Burns’s  venom  when 
He  dips  in  gall  unmixed  his  eager  pen, 

And  pours  his  vengeance  in  the  burning  line, 

Who  christened  thus  Maria’s  lyre  divine  — 

The  idiot  strum  of  vanity  bemused, 

And  even  the  abuse  of  poesy  abused  ? 

Who  called  her  verse  a  parish  workhouse,  made 
For  mot-lev.  foundling  fancies,  stolen  or  strayed  ?) 

A. workhouse  !  ah,  that  sound  awakes  my  woes, 
And  pillows  on  the  thorn  my  racked  repose  ! 

In  durance  vile  here  must  I  wake  and  weep. 

And  all  my  frowsy  couch  in  sorrow  steep  — 

That  straw  where  many  a  rogue  has  lain  of  yore, 
And  vermined  gipsies  littered  heretofore  ! 


530  THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 

Why  Lonsdale  thus,  thy  wrath  on  vagrants  pour  ? 
Must  earth  no  rascal  save  thyself  endure  ? 

Must  thou  alone  in  guilt  immortal  swell, 

And  make  a  vast  monopoly  of  hell  ? 

Thou  know’st  the  virtues  cannot  hate  thee  worse  ; 
The  vices  also,  must  they  club  their  curse  ? 

Or  must  no  tiny  sin  to  others  fall, 

Because  thy  guilt ’s  supreme  enough  for  all  ? 
Maria,  send  me,  too,  thy  griefs  and  cares  ; 

In  all  of  thee  sure  thy  Esopus  shares. 

As  thou  at  all  mankind  the  flag  unfurls, 

Who  on  my  fair  one  Satire’s  vengeance  hurls  ? 
Who  calls  thee  pert,  affected,  vain  coquette, 

A  wit  in  folly,  and  a  fool  in  wit  ? 

Who  says  that  fool  alone  is  not  thy  due, 

And  quotes  thy  treacheries  to  prove  it  true  ? 

Our  force  united  on  thy  foes  we  ’ll  turn, 

And  dare  the  war  with  all  of  woman  born  : 

For  who  can  write  and  speak  as  thou  and  I  — 

My  periods  that  deciphering  defy, 

And  thy  still  matchless  tongue  that  conquers  all 
reply  ? 

— • — 

THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 

Tuxe  —  Lass  of  Inverness. 

HPHE  lovely  lass  o’  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see ; 

For  e’en  and  morn  she  cries,  Alas ! 

And  aye  the  saut  tear  blin’s  her  ee. 
Drumossie  Moor  —  l)rumossie-day  — 

A  vi  aefu’  day  it  was  to  me ! 


A  RED.  RED  ROSE. 

For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 

My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 
Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see, 

And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a  woman’s  ee ! 

Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be ! 

For  monie  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 
That  ne’er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee. 

— • — 

A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 

Tun e  —  Graham '$  Strathspey. 

MY  luve ’s  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That ’s  newly  sprung  in  June  ; 

O  my  luve ’s  like  the  melodie, 

That ’s  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonny  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I ; 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi’  the  sun, 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

While  the  sands  o’  life  shall  run. 

And  fare-thee-weel,  my  only  luve ! 

And  fare-thee-weel  a  while  ! 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 
Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


531 


532  A  VISION. 


A  VISION. 

AS  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where  the  wa’-flower  scents  the  dewy  air, 

Where  th’  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 

And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care ; 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 

The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky  ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 

And  the  distant  echoing  glens  reply. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 

Was  rushing  by  the  ruined  wa’s, 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith,1 
Whose  distant  roaring  swells  arid  fa’s. 

The  cauld  blue  North  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi’  hissing  eerie  din ; 

Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift, 

Like  Fortune’s  favours,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I  turned  mine  eyes, 

And,  by  the  moonbeam,  shook  to  see 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 

Attired  as  minstrels  wont  to  be.2 

>  Variation  — 

To  join  yon  river  on  the  Strath. 

2  Variation  — 

Now  looking  over  firth  and  fauld, 

Her  horn  the  pale-faced  Cynthia  reared: 

When,  lo!  in  form  of  minstrel  auld. 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  appeared. 


OUT  OVER  THE  FORTH.  533 

Had  I  a  statue  been  o’  stane, 

His  darin’  look  had  daunted  me ; 

And  on  his  bonnet  graved  was  plain. 

The  sacred  posy  —  “  Libertie  !  ” 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow, 

Mio-ht  roused  the  slumb’ring  dead  to  hear  ; 

But  oh  !  it  was  a  tale  of  wo, 

As  ever  met  a  Briton’s  ear. 

lie  sang  wi’  joy  the  former  day, 

He  weeping  wailed  his  latter  times ; 

But  what  lie  said  it  was  nae  play  — 

I  winna  ventur ’t  in  my  rhymes. 

— ♦ — 

OUT  OYER  THE  FORTH. 

Tune  —  Charlie  Gordon's  welcome  karne. 

/"AUT  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north, 

But  what  is  the  north  and  its  Highlands  to 
me  V 

The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my  breast, 

The  far  foreign  land,  or  the  wild  rolling  sea. 

But  I  look  to  the  west,  when  I  gae  to  rest, 

That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may 
be ; 

For  far  in  the  west  lives  he  I  lo’e  best, 

The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me. 


534 


SOMEBODY ! 


LOUIS,  WHAT  RECK  I  BY  THEE? 

Tune  —  Louis ,  what  reck  I  by  thee  7 

T  OUIS,  what  reck  I  by  thee, 

Or  Geordie  on  his  ocean  ? 

Dyvor,  beggar  loons  to  me, 

I  reign  in  Jennie’s  bosom  ! 

Let  her  crown  my  love  her  law, 

And  in  her  breast  enthrone  me  — 
Kings  and  nations,  switli,  awa’ ! 

Reif  randies,  I  disown  ye  ! 

— ♦ — 


SOMEBODY! 


Tune  —  For  the  sake  of  Somebody. 


Mv 


heart  is  sair  —  I  dare  na  tell  - 
My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody ; 


I  could  wake  a  winter  ni<dit 

O 


For  the  sake  of  somebody. 
Oh-hon  !  for  somebody  ! 
Oh-key  !  for  somebody  ! 

I  could  range  the  world  around. 
For  the  sake  o’  somebody ! 


Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love, 
O  sweetly  smile  on  somebody  ! 

Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free, 

And  send  me  safe  my  somebody ! 


WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE?  535 

Oli-lion  !  for  somebody  ! 

Oh-hey  !  for  somebody  ! 

I  wad  do  —  wliat  wad  I  not  ? 

For  the  sake  o’  somebody ! 

— ♦ — 

WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE? 

Air  —  The  SutoAs  Dochter. 

YTTILT  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

’  ’  When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 
Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul, 

That ’s  the  love  I  bear  thee, 

I  swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie  ! 

Only  thou,  I  swear  and  vow, 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie  ! 

Lassie,  say  thou  lo’es  me ; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain, 

Say  na  thou  ’It  refuse  me. 

If  it  winna,  canna  be, 

Thou  for  thine  may  choose  me. 

Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die, 

Trusting  that  thou  lo’es  me  ! 

Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die. 

Trusting  that  thou  lo’es  me  1 

O 


536  COULD  AUGHT  OF  SONG. 


LOVELY  POLLY  STEWART. 

Tone — Ye  're  welcome ,  Charlie  Stewart. 

r\  LOVELY  Polly  Stewart! 

O  charming  Polly  Stewart ! 

There ’s  not  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May 
That ’s  half  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  flower,  it  blaws,  it  fades,  and  fa’s. 

And  art  can  ne’er  renew  it ; 

But  worth  and  truth  eternal  youth 
Will  give  to  Polly  Stewart. 


May  he  whose  arms  shall  fauld  thy  charms. 

Possess  a  leal  and  true  heart ; 

To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 
He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart. 

O  lovely  Polly  Stewart ! 

O  charming  Polly  Stewart ! 

There ’s  ne’er  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May 
That’s  half  so  sweet  as  thou  art. 


COULD  AUGHT  OF  SONG. 

Tune  —  At  Setting  Day 

/^OULD  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains. 

Could  artful  numbers  move  thee. 

The  Muse  should  tell,  in  laboured  strains, 

O  Mary,  how  I  love  thee  ! 

They  who  but  feign  a  wounded  heart 
May  teach  the  lyre  to  languish  : 


WAE  IS  MY  HEART.  537 

But  what  avails  the  pride  of  art, 

When  wastes  the  soul  with  anguish  ? 

Then  let  the  sudden  bursting  si<di 
The  heart-felt  pang  discover : 

And  in  the  keen,  yet  tender  eye, 

0  read  the  imploring  lover ! 

For  well  I  know  thy  gentle  mind 
Disdains  art’s  gay  disguising, 

Beyond  what  fancy  e’er  refined, 

The  voice  of  nature  prizing. 

— ♦— 

WAE  IS  MY  HEART. 

Tune —  Wae  is  my  Heart. 

WAE  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear ’s  in  my  ee ; 

Lang,  lang,  joy ’s  been  a  stranger  to  me  ; 

Forsaken  and  friendless,  my  burden  I  bear, 

And  the  sweet  voice  o’  pity  ne’er  sounds  in  my  ear. 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasures,  and  deep  hae  I  loved. 

Love,  thou  hast  sorrows,  and  sair  hae  I  proved  ; 

But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in  my 
breast, 

I  can  feel  its  tlirobbings  will  soon  be  at  rest. 

Oh,  if  I  were  happy,  where  happy  I  hae  been, 

Down  by  yon  stream,  and  yon  bonny  castle-green  ! 

For  there  he  is  wand’ring,  and  musing  on  me, 

Wha  wad  soon  dry  the  tear  frae  Phillis’s  ee. 


538  HERE'S  TO  THY  HEALTH. 


HERE’S  TO  THY  HEALTH,  MY  BONNY  LASS 

Tune  —  Laggan  Burn. 

TTERE’S  to  thy  health,  my  bonny  lass, 
Guid-night,  and  joy  be  wi’  thee  ; 

I  ’ll  come  nae  mair  to  thy  bower-door, 

To  tell  thee  that  I  lo’e  thee. 

O  dinna  think,  my  pretty  pink, 

But  I  can  live  without  thee  : 

I  vow  and  swear  I  dinna  care 
How  lang  ye  look  about  ye. 

Thou  Yt  aye  sae  free  informing  me 

Thou  hast  nae  mind  to  marry, 

•/  ' 

I  ’ll  be  as  free  informing  thee 
Nae  time  hae  I  to  tarry. 

I  ken  thy  friends  try  ilka  means, 

Frae  wedlock  to  delay  thee, 

Depending  on  some  higher  chance  — 

But  fortune  may  betray  thee. 

I  ken  they  scorn  my  low  estate, 

But  that  does  never  grieve  me ; 

But  I ’m  as  free  as  any  he ; 

Sma’  siller  will  relieve  me. 

I  count  my  health  my  greatest  wealth, 

Sae  long  as  I  ’ll  enjoy  it ; 

I’ll  fear  nae  scant,  I  ’ll  bode  nae  want, 

As  lang ’s  I  get  employment. 

But  far-off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair, 

And  aye  until  ye  try  them  ; 


MY  LADY'S  GOWN.  539 

Though  they  seem  fair,  still  have  a  care, 

They  may  prove  waur  than  I  am. 

But  at  twal  at  night,  when  the  moon  shines  bright, 
My  dear,  I  ’ll  come  and  see  thee ; 

For  the  man  that  lo’es  his  mistress  weel, 

Nae  travel  makes  him  weary. 


ANNA,  THY  CHARMS. 

Tune  —  Bonny  Mary. 

\  NNA,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire, 
And  waste  my  soul  with  care ; 
But,  ah  !  how  bootless  to  admire, 
When  fated  to  despair ! 

Yet  in  thy  presence,  lovely  fair, 

To  hope  may  be  forgiven  ; 

For  sure ’t  were  impious  to  despair, 
So  much  in  sight  of  heaven. 


MY  LADY’S  GOWN,  THERE  ’S  GAIRS  UPON ’T. 

•  •••••• 

^YUT  ower  yon  muir,  out  ower  yon  moss, 

Whare  gor-cocks  through  the  heather  pass, 
There  wons  auld  Colin’s  bonny  lass, 

A  lilv  in  a  wilderness. 

Sae  sweetly  move  her  gentle  limbs, 

Like  music  notes  o'  lovers’  hymns  ; 


540  0  LAY  THY  LO OF  IN  MINE ,  LASS. 

The  diamond  dew  is  her  een  sae  blue, 
Where  laughing  love  sae  wanton  swims. 


— ♦ — 

JOCKEY  ’S  TA’EN  THE  PARTING  KISS. 

Tone  —  Jockey ’s  ta'en  the  Parting  Kiss. 

T  OCKE1  ’S  ta’en  the  parting  kiss, 

O’er  the  mountains  he  is  gane, 

And  with  him  is  a’  my  bliss, 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 

Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain  ! 

Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snaw, 
Drifting  o’er  the  frozen  plain  ! 

When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O’er  the  day’s  fair,  gladsome  ee, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep, 

Sweetly  blithe  his  waukening  be ! 

He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 

Fondly  he  ’ll  repeat  her  name; 

For  where’er  he  distant  roves, 

Jockey’s  heart  is  still  at  hame. 

— ♦ — 

0  LAY  THY  LOOP  IN  MINE,  LASS. 

Tune —  Cordwainers ’  March. 

LAY  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 

v'  In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  ; 


0  M  ALLY'S  MEEK,  MALL  Y  'S  SWEET.  541 

And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 

That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 

A  slave  to  love’s  unbounded  sway, 

He  lift  has  wrought  me  meikle  wae ; 

But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae, 

Unless  thou  be  my  ain. 

There ’s  monie  a  lass  has  broke  my  rest, 
That  for  a  blink  I  hae  lo’ed  best ; 

But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breast, 

For  ever  to  remain. 

O  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 

In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass, 

And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass. 
That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 

— « — 

0  MALLY  ’S  MEEK,  MALLY  ’S  SWEET 

/"A  MALLY ’S  meek,  Mally’s  sweet, 

Mally ’s  modest  and  discreet, 

Mally ’s  rare,  Mally ’s  fair, 

Mally’s  every  way  complete. 

As  I  was  walking  up  the  street, 

A  barefit  maid  I  chanced  to  meet ; 

But  oh,  the  road  was  very  hard 
For  that  fair  maiden’s  tender  feet. 

It  were  mair  meet  that  those  fine  feet 
Were  weed  laced  up  in  silken  slioon  ; 

VOL.  II.  13 


542  ON  TEE  DEATH  OF  GLENltlDDEL. 

And ’t  were  more  fit  that  she  should  sit 
Within  yon  chariot  gilt  aboon. 

Her  yellow  hair,  beyond  compare, 

Comes  trinkling  down  her  swan-lildf  neck ; 
And  her  two  eyes,  like  stars  in  skies, 

Would  keep  a  sinking  ship  frae  wreck. 

— ♦ — 

SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GLENRIDDEL. 

O  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more, 

^  Nor  pour,  your  descant  grating  on  my  soul ! 
Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  verdant 
stole, 

More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter’s  wildest 
roar ! 

How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flowers,  with  all  your  dyes  ? 
Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my  friend  ! 
How  can  1  to  the  tuneful  strain  attend  ? 

That  strain  flow's  round  the  untimely  tomb  where 
Riddel  lies. 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  wro, 

And  soothe  the  Virtues  w'eeping  o’er  his  bier  ; 
The  Man  of  Worth,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer, 
Is  in  his  narrow  house,  for  ever  darkly  low. 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others  greet ; 
Me,  memory  of  my  loss  will  only  meet ! 


ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY.  543 

THE  BANKS  OF  CREE. 

Tune  —  The  Banks  of  Cree. 

XTERE  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower, 

All  underneath  the  birchen  shade; 

The  village-bell  has  tolled  the  hour, 

O  what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  V 

’T  is  not  Maria’s  whispering  call ; 

’T  is  but  the  balmy-breathing  gale, 

Mixed  with  some  warbler’s  dying  fall, 

The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria’s  voice  I  hear  !  — 

So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove, 

Ilis  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer ; 

At  once ’t  is  music  and ’t  is  love. 

And  art  thou  come  ?  —  and  art  thou  true  ? 

O  welcome,  dear,  to  love  and  me ! 

And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew, 

Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree. 

— • — 

FRAGMENT  OF  AX  ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON’S 

BIRTHDAY. 

rPlIEE,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 

Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song, 
To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  eyes ; 


544 


LAST  LINES  TO  CL  Alt  IN  DA. 


Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled  ? 

Iinmingled  with  the  mighty  dead, 

Beneath  the  hallowed  turf  where  Wallace  lies ! 

Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death. 

Ye  babbling  winds,  in  silence  sweep, 

Disturb  ye  not  the  hero’s  sleep, 

Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath. 

Is  this  the  power  in  freedom’s  war, 

That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage  V 

“  With  the  additions  of”  — 

Behold  that  eye  which  shot  immortal  hate, 

Braved  usurpation’s  boldest  daring  ; 

That  arm  which,  nerved  with  thundering  fate, 
Crushed  the  despot’s  proudest  bearing ; 

One  quenched  in  darkness  like  the  sinking  star, 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering,  powerless 
age. 

— ♦ — 


FROM  BURNS’S  LAST  LETTER  TO  CLARINDA. 

TN  vain  would  Prudence,  with  decorous  sneer, 
Point  out  a  censuring  world,  and  bid  me  fear : 
Above  that  world  on  wings  of  love  I  rise, 

I  know  its  worst,  and  can  that  worst  despise. 

“  Wronged,  injured,  shunned,  unpitied,  unredrest ; 
The  mocked  quotation  of  the  scorner’s  jest  ”  — 
Let  Prudence’  direst  bodements  on  me  fall, 
Clarinda,  rich  reward  !  o’erpays  them  all. 


r 


THE  TREE  OF  LIBERTY.  545 


WRITTEN  IN  A  COPY  OF  THOMSON’S  MELO¬ 
DIES,  PRESENTED  TO  A  LADY. 


JJERE,  where  the  Scottish  Muse  immortal  lives, 
In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers  joined. 
Accept  the  gift,  though  humble  he  who  gives  : 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind. 


So  may  no  ruffian  feeling  in  thy  breast, 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among; 
But  Peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest, 

Or  Love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song  ; 

Or  Pity’s  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  Want  the  tale  of  wo  reveals  ; 
While  conscious  Virtue  all  the  strain  endears, 
And  heaven-born  Piety  her  sanction  seals. 

— ♦ — 


THE  TREE  OF  LIBERTY. 


TTEARD  ye  o’  the  tree  o’  France? 

A  I  watna  what ’s  the  name  o’ ’t ; 
Around  it  a’  the  patriots  dance, 

Weel  Europe  kens  the  fame  o’ ’t. 

It  stands  where  ance  the  Bastile  stood, 
A  prison  built  by  kings,  man, 

W1  len  Superstition’s  hellish  brood 
Kept  France  in  leading-strings,  man. 


Upo’  this  tree  there  grows  sic  fruit, 
Its  virtues  a’  can  tell,  man ; 


546 


THE  TREE  OF  LIBERT T. 

It  raises  man  aboon  the  brute, 

It  maks  him  ken  himsel’,  man. 

Gif  ance  the  peasant  taste  a  bit, 

He ’s  greater  than  a  lord,  man, 

And  wi’  the  beggar  shares  a  mite 
O’  a’  he  can  afford,  man. 

This  fruit  is  worth  a’  Afric’s  wealth, 

To  comfort  us ’t  was  sent,  man  : 

To  gie  the  sweetest  blush  o’  health, 

And  mak  us  a’  content,  man. 

It  clears  the  een,  it  cheers  the  heart, 

Maks  high  and  low  guid  friends,  man 

And  he  wha  acts  the  traitor’s  part, 

It  to  perdition  sends,  man. 

My  blessings  aye  attend  the  chiel, 

Wha  pitied  Gallia’s  slaves,  man, 

And  staw  a  branch,  spite  o’  the  deil, 

Frae  yont  the  western  waves,  man. 

Fair  Virtue  watered  it  wi’  care, 

And  now  she  sees  wi’  pride,  man, 

How  weel  it  buds  and  blossoms  there, 

Its  branches  spreading  wide,  man. 

But  vicious  folk  aye  hate  to  see 
The  works  o’  Virtue  thrive,  man  ; 

The  courtly  vermin ’s  banned  the  tree, 
And  grat  to  see  it  thrive,  man. 

King;  Loui’  thouglit  to  cut  it  down, 

When  it  was  unco  srna’,  man ; 

For  this  the  watchman  cracked  his  crown, 
Cut  aff  his  head  and  a’,  man. 


THE  TREE  OF  LIBERTY.  547 

A  wicked  crew  syne,  on  a  time, 

Did  tak  a  solemn  aith,  man, 

It  ne’er  should  flourish  to  its  prime, 

I  wat  they  pledged  their  faith,  man. 

Awa’  they  gaed  wi’  mock  parade, 

Like  beagles  hunting  game,  man, 

But  soon  grew  weary  o’  the  trade, 

And  wished  they ’d  been  at  hame,  man. 

For  Freedom,  standing  by  the  tree, 

Her  sons  did  loudly  ca’,  man ; 

She  sang  a  sang  o’  liberty, 

Which  pleased  them  ane  and  a’,  man. 

By  her  inspired,  the  new-born  race 
Soon  drew  the  avenging  steel,  man ; 

The  hirelings  ran  —  her  foes  gied  chase, 

And  banged  the  despot  weel,  man. 

Let  Britain  boast  her  hardy  oak, 

Her  poplar  and  her  pine,  man  ; 

Auld  Britain  ance  could  crack  her  joke, 

And  o’er  her  neighbours  shine,  man  : 

But  seek  the  forest  round  and  round, 

And  soon ’t  will  be  agreed,  man, 

That  sic  a  tree  can  not  be  found 

’Twixt  London  and  the  Tweed,  man. 

Without  this  tree,  alake  this  life 
Is  but  a  vale  o’  wo,  man ; 

A  scene  o’  sorrow  mixed  wi’  strife, 

Nae  real  joys  we  know,  man. 

We  labour  soon,  Ave  labour  late, 

To  feed  the  titled  knave,  man; 


548  ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

And  a’  the  comfort  we  ’re  to  get, 

Is  that  ayont  the  grave,  man. 

\ Vi’  plenty  o’  sic  trees,  I  trow, 

The  warld  would  live  in  peace,  man  ; 

The  sword  would  help  to  male  a  plough. 
The  dirt  o’  war  wad  cease,  man 

Like  brethren  in  a  common  cause, 

We ’d  on  each  other  smile,  man  , 

And  equal  rights  and  equal  laws 
Wad  gladden  every  isle,  man. 

Wae  worth  the  loon  wha  wadna  eat 
Sic  halesome  dainty  cheer,  man  ; 

I ’d  gie  my  shoon  frae  aff  my  feet, 

To  taste  sic  fruit,  I  swear,  man. 

Syne  let  us  pray,  auld  England  may 
Sure  plant  this  far-famed  tree,  man ; 

And  blithe  we’ll  sing,  and  hail  the  day 
That  gave  us  liberty,  man. 


ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 
Tune —  O'er  the  Hills ,  etc. 

TT OW  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 

A  A  When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  ? 
How  can  I  the  thought  forego, 

He ’s  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe  ? 

Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove, 

Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love  : 


ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY.  549 

Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by  day. 

Are  with  him  that ’s  far  away. 

• 

CHORUS. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away, 

On  stormy  seas  and  far  away  ; 

Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by  day, 

Are  aye  with  him  that ’s  far  away. 

When  in  summer’s  noon  I  faint, 

As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant, 

Haply  in  the  scorching  sun 
My  sailor ’s  thundering  at  his  gun  : 

Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  ! 

Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy  ! 

Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may, 

Spare  but  him  that ’s  far  away  ! 

At  the  starless  midnight  hour, 

When  winter  rules  with  boundless  power, 

As  the  storms  the  forest  tear, 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air, 
Listening  to  the  doubling  roar, 

Surging  on  the  rocky  shore, 

All  I  can  —  I  weep  and  pray, 

For  his  weal  that ’s  far  away. 

Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend, 

And  bid  wild  War  his  ravage  end, 

Man  with  brother  man  to  meet, 

And  as  a  brother  kindly  greet  ! 

Then  may  Heaven  with  prosperous  gales, 


550  CA'  THE  YOWES  TO  THE  KNOWES 

Fill  my  sailor’s  welcome  sails, 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey, 

My  dear  lad  that ’s  far  away. 

— ♦ — 

CA’  THE  YOWES  TO  THF  KNOWLS. 
CHORUS. 

/~^A’  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

^  Ca’  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca’  them  where  the  burnie  rows, 

My  bonny  dearie  ! 

Hark  !  the  mavis’  evenino--san°' 

Sounding  Cluden’s  woods  amaiu  ; 

Then  a  faulding  let  us  gang, 

My  bonny  dearie. 

We’ll  gae  down  by  Cluden  side, 

Through  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 

O’er  the  waves  that  sweetlv  glide 

v  O 

To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Yonder  Cluden’s  silent  towel's, 

Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours. 

O’er  the  dewy  bending  flowers, 

Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear; 

Thou  ’rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  mav  come  thee  near. 

My  bonny  dearie. 


SFIE  SAYS  SHE  LO'ES  ME. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart , 

I  can  die  —  but  canna  part, 

My  bonny  dearie. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea ; 

While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 

Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin’  my  ee, 
Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 

— « — 

SHE  SAYS  SHE  LO’ES  ME  BEST  OF  A’. 

Tune —  Onagh's  Lock. 

O  AE  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 

^  Her  eyebrows  of  a  darker  hue, 

Bewitchingly  o’er-arching 

Twa  laughing  een  o’  bonny  blue  : 

Her  smiling,  sae  wiling, 

Wad  make  a  wretch  forget  his  wo : 

What  pleasure,  what  treasure, 

Unto  these  rosy  lips  to  grow  ! 

Such  was  my  Chloris’  bonny  face, 

When  first  her  bonny  face  I  saw  ; 

And  aye  my  Chloris’  dearest  charm,  — 
She  says  she  lo’es  me  best  of  a’. 

Like  harmony  her  motion ; 

Her  pretty  ankle  is  a  spy 

Betraying  fair  proportion. 

Wad  make  a  saint  forget  the  sky. 

Sae  warming,  sae  charming, 


551 


552  SAW  YE  MY  PH  ELY/ 

Her  faultless  form  and  graceful  air; 

Ilk  feature  —  auld  nature 

Declared  that  she  could  do  nae  mail*. 
Hers  are  the  willing  chains  o’  love, 

By  conquering  beauty’s  sovereign  law 
And  aye  my  Chloris’  dearest  charm,  — 
She  says  she  lo’es  me  best  of  a’. 

Let  others  love  the  city, 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon  ; 

Gie  me  the  lonely  valley, 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon, 

Fair  beaming,  and  streaming, 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang ; 
While  falling,  recalling, 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  his  sang 
There,  dearest  Chloris,  wilt  thou  rove 
By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw, 

And  hear  my  vows  o’  truth  and  love, 

And  say  thou  lo’es  me  best  of  a’  ? 


SAW  YE  MY  PHELY? 

Tune —  When  she  cam  ben  she  bobbit 

fyi,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 

Oh,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 

She ’s  down  i’  the  grove,  she ’s  wi’  a  new  love, 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  Willy. 

What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 

What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 


now  LONG  AND  DREARY.  553 

« 

She  lets  thee  to  wit,  that  she  has  thee  forgot. 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  Willy. 

Oh,  had  I  ne’er  seen  thee,  my  Phely ! 

Oh,  had  I  ne’er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 

As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou ’s  fair, 
Thou ’s  broken  the  heart  o’  thy  Willy. 


flOW  LONG  AND  DREARY  IS  THE  NIGHT! 

Tune —  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen. 


TT OW  long  and  dreary  is  the  night 
When  I  am  frae  my  dearie ! 

I  restless  lie  frae  e’en  to  morn, 
Though  I  were  ne’er  sae  weary. 


CHORUS. 

For  oh,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang ! 

And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie ! 
And  oh,  her  widowed  heart  is  sair, 
That ’s  absent  frae  her  dearie  ! 


When  I  think  on  the  lightsome  days 
I  spent  wi’  thee,  my  dearie, 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar, 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ? 

IIow  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  horn's  ! 

The  joyless  day,  how  dreary  ! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

When  I  was  wi’  mv  dearie ! 


554  THE  LOVER'S  MORNING-SALUTE. 

LET  NOT  WOMAN  E’ER  COMPLAIN 


Tune — Duncan  Gray. 


ET  not  woman  e’er  complain 


^  Of  inconstancy  in  love : 

%> 

Let  not  woman  e’er  complain 
Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove. 

Look  abroad  through  Nature’s  range, 
Nature’s  mighty  law  is  change ; 
Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange, 

Man  should  then  a  monster  prove  ? 

Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies, 
Ocean’s  ebb,  and  ocean’s  How ; 

Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise, 

Round  and  round  the  seasons  go. 
Why,  then,  ask  of  silly  Man 
To  oppose  great  Nature’s  plan  ? 
We’ll  be  constant  while  we  can  — 
You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 


THE  LOVER’S  MORNING-SALUTE  TO  HIS 


MISTRESS 


Tune — Deil  lak  the  Warn. 


LEEP’ST  thou,  or  wak’st  thou,  fairest  creature  ? 


^  J  Rosy  Morn  now  lifts  his  eye, 
Numbering  ilka  bud  which  nature 
Water’s  wi*  the  tears  o’  joy. 
Now  through  the  leafy  woods, 
And  by  the  reeking  floods, 


riJE  LOVER'S  MORNING-SALUTE. 

Wild  nature’s  tenants  freely,  gladly  stray ; 

The  lintwhite  in  his  bower 
Chants  o’er  the  breathing  flower ; 

The  lav’rock  to  the  sky 
Ascends  wi’  sangs  o’  joy, 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day. 


Phoebus,  gilding  the  brow  o’  morning, 

Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade, 

Nature  gladd’ning  and  adorning ; 

Such  to  me  my  lovely  maid. 

When  absent  frae  my  fair, 

The  murky  shades  o’  care 
With  starless  gloom  o’ercast  my  sullen  sky , 
But  when  in  beauty’s  light, 

She  meets  my  ravished  sight, 

When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  glories  dart  — 

’T  is  then  I  wake  to  life,  to  light,  and  joy  ! 1 

l  Variation  : 

Now  to  the  streaming  fountain, 

Or  up  the  heathy  mountain, 

The  hart,  hind,  and  roe,  freely,  wildly-wanton  stray  ; 

In  twining  hazel-bowers 
His  lay  the  linnet  pours  ; 

The  lav’rock  to  the  sky 
Ascends  wi’  sangs  o’  joy, 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day. 

When  frae  my  Chloris  parted, 

Sad,  cheerless,  broken-hearted, 

The  night’s  gloomy  shades,  cloudy,  dark,  o’ercast  my  sky 
Hut  when  she  charms  my  sight, 

In  pride  of  beauty’s  light ; 

When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  glories  dart  — 

T  is  then,  ’t  is  then  I  wake  to  life  and  joy!  —  Currie. 


555 


556  TO  CEL  ORIS. 


THE  AULD  MAN. 

T>UT  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day; 

Through  gentle  showers  the  laughing  flowers 
In  double  pride  were  gay. 

But  now  our  joys  are  fled 
On  winter  blasts  aw  a’ ! 

Yet  Maiden  May,  in  rich  array, 

A”;ain  shall  brinsr  them  a’. 

But  my  white  pow !  nae  kindly  thowe 
Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age ; 

My  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  beild, 

Sinks  in  Time’s  wintry  rage. 

Oh,  Age  has  weary  days, 

And  nights  o’  sleepless  pain  ! 

Thou  golden  time  o’  youthful  prime, 

Why  com’st  thou  not  again  ? 


TO  CHLORIS. 

INSCRIBED  IN  A  BOOK  PRESENTED  TO  HER. 

IS  Friendship’s  pledge,  my  young,  fair  friend, 
Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 

Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 
The  moralising  Muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms. 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu. 


X 


MY  CnLORIS,  MARK.  557 

(A  world  ’gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few  : 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o’ercast, 

Chill  came  the  tempest’s  lower; 

(And  ne’er  misfortune’s  eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a  fairer  flower :) 

Since  life’s  £av  scenes  must  charm  no  more, 

Still  much  is  left  behind  ; 

Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store  — 

The  comforts  of  the  mind  ! 

*Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow, 

On  conscious  honour’s  part ;  » 

And,  dearest  gift  of  Heaven  below, 

Thine  friendship’s  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refined  of  sense  and  taste, 

With  every  Muse  to  rove  : 

And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest, 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 

— ♦ — 

MY  GHLORIS,  MARK  HOW  GREEN  THE  GROVES. 

Tctne  —  My  Lodging  is  on  the  cold  Ground. 

j\/I"Y  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 

1V.L  rpjie  pr;mrose  banks  how  fair ; 

The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers, 

And  wave  thy  flaxen  hair. 

VOL.  II.  14 


558  YOUTHFUL ,  CHARMING  CHLOE. 

The  lav’rock  shuns  the  palace  gay, 

And  o’er  the  cottage  sings : 

For  nature  smiles  as  sweet,  I  ween. 

To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 

Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu’  string 
Tn  lordly  lighted  ha’ : 

The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 

Blithe,  in  the  birken  shaw. 

The  princely  revel  may  survey 
Our  rustic  dance  wi’  scorn  ; 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  ? 

The  shepherd,  in  the  flowery  glen, 

In  shepherd’s  phrase  will  woo  : 

The  courtier  tells  a  finer  tale, 

But  is  his  heart  as  true  ? 

These  wild-wood  flowers  I ’ve  pu’d,  to  deck 
That  spotless  breast  o’  thine  : 

The  courtier’s  gems  may  witness  love  — 
But ’t  is  na  love  like  mine. 

— ♦ — 

IT  WAS  THE  CHARMING  MONTH  OF  MAY. 

Tune  —  Dainty  Davie. 

t 

IT  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 

When  all  the  flowers  were  fresh  and  gay ; 


LASSIE  WI‘  THE  LINT-WHITE  LOCKS.  559 

One  morning,  by  the  break  of  day, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe, 

From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose, 

Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose, 

And  o’er  the  flowery  mead  she  goes, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 
Tripping  o’er  the  pearly  lawn, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

The  feathered  people,  you  might  see 
Perched  all  around  on  every  tree  ; 

In  notes  of  sweetest  melody 
They  hail  the  charming  Chloe ; 

Till,  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies, 

The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 

Outrivalled  by  the  radiant  eyes 
Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 


LASSIE  WI’  THE  LINT-WHITE  LOCKS. 

9 

Tone  —  Rothemurchie's  Rant. 

CHORUS. 

T  ASSIE  wi’  the  lint-white  locks, 

^  Bonny  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

Wilt  thou  wi’  me  tent  the  flocks, 

Y Vi  It  thou  be  my  dearie  O  ? 


560  FAREWELL ,  THOU  STREAM. 

Now  Nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea, 

And  a’  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee  : 

Oh,  wilt  thou  share  its  joys  wi’  me, 

And  say  thou  ’It  be  my  dearie  O  ? 

And  when  the  welcome  simmer-shower 
Has  cheered  ilk  drooping  little  flower, 

We  ’ll  to  the  breathing  woodbine-bower 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie  O. 

When  Cynthia  lights,  wi’  silver  ray, 

The  weary  shearer’s  hameward  way, 

Through  yellow  waving  fields  we  ’ll  stray, 
And  talk  o’  love,  my  dearie  O. 

And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie’s  midnight  rest, 

Enclasped  to  my  faithful  breast, 

I  ’ll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie  O. 

— ♦ — 

FAREWELL,  THOU  STREAM  THAT  WINDING 

FLOWS. 

T^AREWELL,  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 
Around  Eliza’s  dwelling  ! 

O  mem’ry  !  spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling  : 

Condemned  to  drag  a  hopeless  chain. 

And  yet  in  secret  languish, 

To  feel  a  fire  in  every  vein, 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 


P II ILLY  AND  WILLY.  561 

Love’s  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknown, 

I  fain  my  griefs  would  cover  ; 

The  bursting  sigh,  th’  unweeting;  groan, 

©O'  O  o  7 

Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

I  know  thou  doom’st  me  to  despair, 

Nor  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me ; 

But,  oh  !  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer  —  - 
For  pity’s  sake  forgive  me  ! 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I  heard, 

Nor  wist,  while  it  enslaved  me  ; 

I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  feared, 

Till  fears  no  more  had  saved  me. 

Th’  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast, 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing, 

’Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 

In  overwhelming;  ruin. 

© 


PHILLY  AND  WILLY. 
Tune —  The  Sow's  Tail. 


HE. 


PHILLY,  happy  be  that  day, 

When  roving  through  the  gathered  hay, 
My  youthfu’  heart  was  stown  away, 

And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly. 


SHE. 

O  Willy,  aye  I  bless  the  grove 
Where  first  I  owned  my  maiden  love, 


562 


- a - - - - 

PUILL  Y  AND  WILLY. 

Whilst  thou  didst  pledge  the  powers  above 
To  be  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

HE. 

As  songsters  of  the  early  year 
Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear. 

So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 
And  charming  is  my  Pliilly. 


SHE. 

As  on  the  brier  the  budding  rose 
Still  richer  breathes  and  fairer  blows, 

So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 
The  love  I  bear  my  Willy. 

HE. 

The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky, 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi’  joy, 
Were  ne’er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 
As  is  a  sight  o’  Philly. 

SHE. 

The  little  swallow’s  wanton  wing, 
Though  wafting  o’er  the  flowery  spring, 
Did  ne’er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring, 

As  meeting  o’  my  Willy. 


HE. 

The  bee  that  through  the  sunny  hour 
Sips  nectar  in  the  opening  flower, 
Compared  wi’  my  delight  is  poor, 
Upon  the  lips  o’  Philly. 


CONTENTED  WT  LITTLE.  563 

SHE. 

The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet, 

When  evening  shades  in  silence  meet. 

Is  nocht  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 
As  is  a  kiss  o’  AVilly. 

HE. 

Let  fortune’s  wheel  at  random  rin, 

And  fools  may  tyne.  and  knaves  may  win  , 
My  thoughts  are  a’  bound  up  in  ane, 

And  that  *s  my  ain  dear  Philly. 

SHE. 

What ’s  a’  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie  ? 

I  care  nae  wealth  a  single  flie  : 

©  ' 

Tlie  lad  I  love ’s  the  lad  for  me, 

And  that ’s  my  ain  dear  AVilly. 

— ♦ — 

CONTENTED  AVI’  LITTLE. 

Tune —  Lumps  o’  Pudding 

/CONTENTED  wi’  little,  and  cantie  wi’  mair, 
^  AVhene’er  I  forgather  wi’  sorrow  and  care, 

I  gie  them  a  skelp  as  they  ’re  creepin’  alang, 

AVi’  a  cog  o’  guid  swats,  and  an  auld  Scottish  sang. 

I  whiles  claw  the  elbow  o’  troublesome  thought, 
But  man  is  a  sodger,  and  life  is  a  faught : 


5G4  CAN  ST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS  t 

My  mirth  and  good-humour  are  coin  in  my  pouch, 
And  my  freedom ’s  my  lairdship  nae  monarch  dare 
touch. 

A  towinond  o’  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa’, 

A  night  o’  guid-fellowship  sowthers  it  a’ : 

When  at  the  blithe  end  of  our  journey  at  last, 
Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o’  the  road  he  has  past  ? 

Blind  Chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte  on  her 
way  ; 

Be ’t  to  me,  be ’t  frae  me,  e’en  let  the  jade  gae  : 
Come  ease  or  come  travail,  come  pleasure  or  pain, 
My  warst  word  is :  “  Welcome,  and  welcome 

again  !  ” 

O 

— ♦ — 

CAN  ST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS,  MY  KATY  ? 
Tone — Roy's  Wife. 

CHORUS. 

/"TANST  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 

^  Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Well  thou  know’st  my  aching  heart, 

And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 

Is  this  thy  plighted,  fond  regard, 

Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy  ? 

Is  this  thy  faithful  swain’s  reward  — 

An  aching,  broken  heart,  my  Katy  ? 


FOR  A ’  THAT  AND  A ’  THAT.  565 

Farewell  !  and  ne’er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy  ! 

Thou  may’st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear  — 
But  not  a  love  like  mine,  my  Katy. 


FOR  A’  THAT  AND  A’  THAT. 

T  S  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a’  that! 

The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  bv. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a’  that ; 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp, 

The  man ’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that  ! 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 
Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a’  that ; 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man ’s  a  man  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a’  that ; 

The  honest  man,  though  e’er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that  ! 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca’d  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a’  that ; 

Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He ’s  but  a  coof  for  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a’  that ; 


566  0  WAT  YE  WHA'S  IN  YON  TOWN.. 

The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a’  that ; 

But  an  honest  man ’s  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa’  that  ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a’  that ; 

The  pith  o’  sense,  and  pride  o’  worth, 

Are  higher  rank  than  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may  — 

As  come  it  will  for  a’  that  — 

That  sense  and  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

It ’s  coming  yet,  for  a’  that, 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that ! 


O  WAT  YE  WHA’S  IN  YON  TOWN? 


CHORUS. 


WAT  ye  wha ’s  in  yon  town, 

Ye  see  the  e’cnin’  sun  upon  ? 

The  dearest  maid ’s  in  yon  town 
That  e’enin’  sun  is  shinin’  on. 

O  sweet  to  me  yon  spreading  tree, 

Where  Jeanie  wanders  aft  her  lane  ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  that  shades  her  bower, 
Oh,  when  shall  I  behold  again  ! 


O  LASSIE,  ART  TIIOU  SLEEPING  YET? 


0  LASSIE,  ART  THOU  SLEEPING  YET  ? 

Tune  —  Let  me  in  this  ae  Night. 

LASSIE,  art  thou  sleeping  yet  ? 

Or  art  thou  wakin’,  I  would  wit  V 
For  love  has  bound  me  hand  and  fool,, 
And  I  would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

CHORUS. 

O  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 

For  pity’s  sake  this  ae  night, 

O  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo  ! 

Thou  hear’st  the  winter  wind  and  weet, 
Nae  star  blinks  through  the  driving  sleet 
Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet, 

And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws 
Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa’s  ; 

The  cauldness  o’  thy  heart ’s  the  cause 
Of  a’  my  grief  and  pain,  jo. 


HER  ANSWER. 

/'A  TELL  na  me  o’  wind  and  rain, 
Upbraid  na  me  wi’  cauld  disdain  ; 
Gae  back  the  gait  ye  cam  again  — 

I  winna  let  you  in,  jo  ! 


567 


ELECTION  BALLADS 


568 

CHORUS. 

I  tell  you  now  this  ae  night, 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 

And  ance  for  a’  this  ae  night, 

I  winna  let  you  in,  jo  ! 

The  snellest  blast,  at  mirkest  hours, 

That  round  the  pathless  wanderer  pours, 

Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures, 

That’s  trusted  faithless  man,  jo. 

The  sweetest  flower  that  decked  the  mead, 
Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed  — 

Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  read, 

The  weird  may  be  her  ain,  jo. 

The  bird  that  charmed  his  summer-da \ , 

Is  now  the  cruel  fowler’s  prey  ; 

Let  witless,  trusting  woman  say 
IIow  aft  her  fate ’s  the  same,  jo  ! 


BALLADS  ON  MR.  HERON’S  ELECTION,  17'.)5. 

BALLAD  FIRST. 

XXTHOM  will  you  send  to  London  town, 

To  Parliament  and  a’  that  ? 

Or  wha  in  a’  the  country  round 
The  best  deserves  to  fa’  that  ? 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 


ELECTION  BALLADS.  569 

Through  Galloway  and  a’  that ; 

Where  is  the  laird  or  belted  knight 
That  best  deserves  to  fa’  that  ? 

Wha  sees  Kerroughtree’s  open  yett, 

And  wha  is ’t  never  saw  that  ? 

Wha  ever  wi’  Kerroughtree  meets, 

And  has  a  doubt  of  a’  that  ? 

For  a’  that,  and  a'  that, 

Here ’s  ITeron  yet  for  a’  that ! 

The  independent  patriot, 

The  honest  man,  and  a’  that. 

Though  wit  and  worth  in  either  sex, 

St.  Mary’s  Isle  can  sliaw  that ; 

Wi’  dukes  and  lords  let  Selkirk  mix, 

And  weel  does  Selkirk  fa’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here ’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that ! 

The  independent  commoner 
Shall  be  the  man  for  a’  that. 

But  why  should  we  to  nobles  jouk  ? 

And  is ’t  against  the  law  that  ? 

For  why,  a  lord  may  be  a  gouk, 

Wi’  ribbon,  star,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here ’s  Heron  vet  for  a’  that ! 

A  lord  may  be  a  lousy  loun, 

Wi’  ribbon,  star,  and  a’  that,. 

A  beardless  boy  comes  o’er  the  hills, 

Wi’  uncle’s  purse  and  a’  that ; 


570 


ELECTION  BALLADS. 


But  we  ’ll  liae  ane  frae  ’mano;  oursel’s, 

A  man  we  ken,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here ’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that ! 

For  we’re  not  to  be  bought  and  sold, 
Like  naigs,  and  nowt,  and  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  drink  the  Stewartry, 
Kerroughtree’s  laird,  and  a’  that, 

Our  representative  to  be, 

For  weel  he ’s  worthy  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here ’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that ! 

A  House  of  Commons  such  as  he. 
They  would  be  blest  that  saw  that 


BALLAD  SECOND. 

Y,  let  us  a’  to  Kirkcudbright, 


For  there  will  be  bickering  there; 
For  Murray’s  light  horse  are  to  muster, 
And  oh,  how  the  heroes  will  swear ! 

First,  there  will  be  trusty  Kerrouglitree, 
Whase  honour  was  ever  his  law ; 

If  the  Virtues  were  packed  in  a  parcel, 
Ills  worth  might  be  sample  for  a’. 

And  strong  and  respectfu’  ’s  his  backing, 
The  maist  o’  the  lairds  wi’  him  stand  ; 
Nae  gipsy-like  nominal  barons, 

AVhase  property ’s  paper,  but  lands. 


ELE  C  TION  BALL  A  DS. 

For  there  frae  the  Niddisdale  borders, 

Tiie  Maxwells  will  gather  in  droves, 

Teugh  Jockie,  stanch  Geordie,  and  Wellwood, 
That  griens  for  the  fishes  and  loaves. 

And  there  will  be  Heron  the  Major, 

Wha  ’ll  ne’er  be  forgot  in  the  Greys ; 

Our  flattery  we  ’ll  keep  for  some  other, 

Him  only ’t  is  justice  to  praise. 

And  there  will  be  Maiden  Kilkerran, 

And  also  Barskimming’s  mud  knight ; 

And  there  will  be  roaring  Birtwhistle, 

Wha  luckily  roars  i’  the  right. 

Next  there  will  be  wealthy  young  Richard  — 
Dame  Fortune  should  liing  bv  the  neck 

O  v 

For  prodigal  thriftless  bestowing — • 

His  merit  had  won  him  respect. 

And  there  will  be  rich  brother  nabobs, 

Though  nabobs,  yet  men  of  the  first ; 

And  there  will  be  Collieston’s  whiskers, 

And  Quintin,  o’  lads  not  the  warst. 

And  there  will  be  Stamp-office  Johnnie  — 
Take  care  how  ye  purchase  a  dram ; 

And  there  will  be  gay  Cassencarrie, 

And  there  will  be  gleg  Colonel  Tam. 

And  there  will  be  folk  frae  St.  Mary’s, 

A  house  of  great  merit  and  note ; 


571 


572  ELECTION  BALLADS. 

The  deil  ane  but  honours  them  highly. 

The  deil’s  few  will  gie  them  a  vote. 

And  there  ’ll  be  Murray  commander, 

And  Gordon  the  battle  to  win  ; 

Like  brothers  they  ’ll  stand  by  each  other, 
Sae  knit  in  alliance  and  sin. 

And  there  will  be  black-lippit  Johnnie, 
The  tongue  o’  the  trump  to  them  a’ ; 

An  he  gets  na  hell  for  his  haddin, 

The  deil  gets  nae  justice  ava. 

And  there  ’ll  be  Kempleton’s  birkie, 

A  chi  el  no  sae  black  at  the  bane ; 

For  as  for  his  fine  nabob  fortune, 

We’ll  e’en  let  that  subject  alane.1 

And  there  ’ll  be  Wigton’s  new  sherilf, 
Dame  Justice  fu’  brawly  has  sped ; 

She ’s  gotten  the  heart  o’  a  Bushby, 

But,  Lord  !  what ’s  become  o’  the  head  ? 

And  there  ’ll  be  Cardoness  Esquire, 

Sae  mighty  in  Cardoness’  eyes, 

A  wight  that  will  weather  damnation, 

For  the  devil  the  prey  will  despise. 

And  there  is  our  king’s  lord-lieutenant, 

So  famed  for  his  grateful  return  ; 

1  Varia  tion  : 

For  now  what  he  wan  in  the  Indies, 

Has  scoured  up  the  laddie  fu’  clean. 


ELECTION  BALLADS.  573 

The  birkie  is  getting  his  questions, 

To  say  in  St.  Stephen’s  the  morn. 

And  there  will  be  Douglases  doughty 
New-christening  towns  far  and  near ; 

Abjuring  their  democrat  doings, 

By  kissing  the - of  a  peer. 

And  there  ’ll  be  lads  o’  the  gospel ; 

Muirhead,  wha ’s  as  guid  as  he ’s  true  ; 

And  there  ’ll  be  Buittle’s  apostle, 

Wha ’s  mair  o’  the  black  than  the  blue. 

And  there  ’ll  be  Kenmure  sae  generous, 

Wliase  honour  is  proof  to  the  storm  ; 

To  save  them  frae  stark  reprobation, 

He  lent  them  his  name  to  the  firm. 

And  there  ’ll  be  Logan  M’Dowall, 

Sculduddery  and  he  will  be  there ; 

And  also  the  wild  Scot  o’  Galloway, 

Sodgering  gunpowder  Blair. 

But  we  winna  mention  Redcastle, 

The  body,  e’en  let  him  escape ! 

He ’d  venture  the  gallows  for  siller, 

An’  ’t  were  na’  the  cost  o’  the  rape. 

Then  hey  the  chaste  interest  o’  I^ougliton, 

And  hey  for  the  blessings ’t  will  bring ! 

It  may  send  Balmaghie  to  the  Commons, 

In  Sodom,  ’t  would  make  him  a  king. 

VOL.  II.  15 


574  JOHN  BUSHBY'S  LAMENTATION. 

And  hey  for  the  sanctified  Murray, 

Our  land  who  wi’  chapels  has  stored  ; 
He  foundered  his  horse  among  harlots, 
But  o;ied  the  auld  naig  to  the  Lord. 

o  o 

— ♦ — 

JOHN-  BUSHBY’S  LAMENTATION. 

Tune  —  The  Babes  in  the  Wood. 

>rri  WAS  in  the  seventeen  hunder  year 
A  O’  grace  and  ninety-five, 

That  year  I  was  the  wae’est  man 
O’  ony  man  alive. 

Tn  March  the  three-and-twentiefli  morn, 
The  sun  raise  clear  and  bright ; 

But  oh  I  was  a  waefu’  man 
Ere  to-fa’  o’  the  night. 

Yerl  Galloway  lang  did  rule  this  land, 
Wi’  equal  right  and  fame, 

And  thereto  was  his  kinsman  joined 
The  Murray’s  noble  name.1 

Yerl  Galloway  lang  did  rule  the  land, 
Made  me  the  judge  o’  strife  ; 

But  now  Y"erl  Galloway’s  sceptre ’s  broke, 
And  eke  my  hangman’s  knife.2 
v 

‘  Variation: 

Fast  knit  in  chaste  and  haly  bands, 

Wi’  Broughton’s  noble  name. 

*  Variation: 

Earl  Galloway’s  man  o’  men  was  I, 

And  chief  o’  Broughton’s  host ; 


JOHN  BUSHBTS  LAMENTATION.  575 

’T  was  by  the  banks  o’  bonny  Dee, 

Beside  Kirkcudbright’s  towers, 

The  Stewart  and  the  Murray  there 
Did  muster  a’  their  powers 

The  Murray,  on  the  auld  gray  yaud, 

Wi’  winged  spurs  did  ride, 

That  auld  gray  yaud,  yea,1  Nidsdale  rade. 

He  staw  upon  Nidside. 

An  there  had  na  been  the  yerl  himsel’, 

O  there  had  been  nae  play  ; 

But  Garlies  was  to  London  gane, 

And  sae  the  kye  might  stray. 

And  there  was  Balmaghie,  I  ween, 

In  front  rank  he  wad  shine ; 

But  Balmaghie  had  better  been 
Drinking  Madeira  wine. 

Frae  the  2  Glenkens  came  to  our  aid, 

A  chief  o’  doughty  deed ; 

In  case  that  worth  should  wanted  be, 

0’  Kenmure  we  had  need. 

And  by  our  banners  marched  Muirhead, 

And  Buittle  was  na  slack ; 

So  twa  blind  beggars  on  a  string 
The  faithfu’  tyke  will  trust. 

But  now  Earl  Galloway’s  sceptre ’s  broke. 

And  Broughton ’s  wi’  the  slain, 

And  I  my  ancient  craft  may  try, 

Sin’  honesty  is  gane. 

I  Variation  :  a  2  Variation  :  Anti  fra 


576  JOHN  BUSHBTS  LAMENTATION. 

Whase  haly  priesthood  nane  can  stain, 

F or  wha  can  dye  the  black  ? 

And  there  sae  grave  Squire  Cardoness, 
Looked  on  till  a’  was  done  ; 

Sae,  in  the  tower  o’  Cardoness, 

A  howlet  sits  at  noon. 

And  there  led  I  the  Bushby  clan, 

My  gamesome  billie  Will ; 

And  my  son  Maitland,  wise  as  brave, 
My  footsteps  followed  still. 

The  Douodas  and  the  Heron’s  name 
We  set  nought  to  their  score  ; 

The  Douglas  and  the  Heron’s  name 
Had  felt  our  weight 1  before. 

But  Douglases  o’  weight  had  we, 

The  pair  o’  lusty  lairds, 

For  building  cot-houses  sae  famed,  . 
And  christening  kail-yards. 

And  there  Redeastle  drew  his  sword, 
That  ne’er  was  stained  wi’  gore, 

Save  on  a  wanderer  lame  and  blind, 

To  drive  him  frae  his  door. 

And  last  came  creeping  C - 1 - n. 

Was  mair  in  fear  than  wrath  ; 

Ae  knave  was  constant  in  his  mind, 

To  keep  that  knave  frae  scaith.  .  .  . 

l  Variation :  might. 


THE  D  DM  FRIES  V  OL  UN  TEERS 


577 


THE  DUMFRIES  VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune  —  Push  about  the  Jorum. 

TAOES  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat  V 
Then  let  the  loons  beware,  sir ; 

There ’s  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas, 
And  volunteers  on  shore,  sir. 

The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsincon, 

And  CrifFel  sink  in  Solway, 

Ere  we  permit  a  foreign  foe 
On  British  ground  to  rally  ! 

Fall  de  rail,  etc. 

Oh,  let  us  not  like  snarling  tykes 
In  wrangling  be  divided  ; 

Till,  slap,  come  in  an  unco  loon, 

And  wi’  a  rung  decide  it. 

Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

Among  oursel’s  united ; 

F or  never  but  by  British  hands 
Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted. 

Fall  de  rail,  etc. 

The  kettle  o’  the  Kirk  and  State, 
Perhaps  a  clout  may  fail  in ’t; 

But  deil  a  foreign  tinkler  loon 
Shall  ever  ca’  a  nail  in ’t. 

Our  fathers’  bluid  the  kettle  bought. 

And  wlia  wad  dare  to  spoil  it,  — 

By  Heaven,  the  sacrilegious  dog 
Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it ! 

Fall  de  rail,  etc. 


578  TOAST  FOR  THE  12 Til  OF  APRIL. 


The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own, 

And  the  wretch  his  true-born  brother, 
Wh’  ’ould  set  the  mob  aboon  the  throne , 
May  they  be  damned  together ! 

Who  will  not  sing  “  God  save  the  King,” 
Shall  hang  as  high ’s  the  steeple  ; 

But  while  we  sing  “  God  save  the  King,” 
We  ’ll  ne’er  forget  the  People. 

— ♦ — 


TOAST  FOR  THE  12TH  OF  APRIL. 

TNSTEAD  of  a  song,  boys,  I  ’ll  give  you  a  toast  — 
Here ’s  the  memory  of  those  on  the  twelfth 
that  we  lost !  — 

That  we  lost,  did  I  say  ?  nay,  by  Heaven,  that  we 
found ; 

For  their  fame  it  shall  last  while  the  world  goes 
round. 

The  next  in  succession,  I  ’ll  give  you  —  the  King ! 
Whoe’er  would  betray  him,  on  high  may  he  swing  ; 
And  here ’s  the  grand  fabric,  our  free  Constitution, 
As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Revolution  ! 

And  longer  with  politics  not  to  be  crammed, 

Be  Anarchy  cursed,  and  be  Tyranny  damned  ; 
And  who  would  to  Liberty  e’er  prove  disloyal, 
May  his  son  be  a  hangman,  and  he  his  first  trial ! 


WAT  YE  WHA'S  IN  YON  TOWN.  579 


OH,  WAT  YE  WHA’S  IN  YON  TOWN  ? 

Tune  —  We 'll  gang  nae  mair  to  yon  Town. 

^AH,  wat  ye  wha’s  in  yon  town, 

Ye  see  the  e’enin’  sun  upon  ?, 

The  fairest  dame ’s  in  yon  town, 

That  e’enin’  sun  is  shining  on. 


Now  haply  down  yon  gay  green  shaw, 

She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree ; 
How  blest  ye  flowers  that  round  her  blaw, 
Ye  catch  the  glances  o’  her  ee ! 


How  blest  ye  birds  that  round  her  sing 
And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year  ! 

And  doubly  welcome  be  the  spring, 

The  season  to  my  Lucy  dear. 

The  sun  blinks  blithe  on  yon  town, 

And  on  yon  bonny  braes  of  Ayr  ; 

But  my  delight  in  yon  town, 

And  dearest  bliss,  is  Lucy  fair. 

Without  my  love,  not  a’  the  charms 
O’  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy  ; 

But  gie  me  Lucy  in  my  arms, 

And  welcome  Lapland’s  dreary  sky  ! 

My  cave  wad  be  a  lover’s  bower, 
Though  raging  winter  rent  the  air  ; 

And  she  a  lovely  little  flower, 

That  I  wad  tent  and  shelter  there. 


580  ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOODLARK. 

Oh,  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town, 

Yon  sinkin’  sun ’s  gane  down  upon  ; 

A  fairer  than ’s  in  yon  town 

His  setting  beam  ne’er  shone  upon. 

If  angry  fate  is  sworn  my  foe, 

And  suffering  I  am  doomed  to  bear, 

I  careless  quit  aught  else  below, 

But  spare  me  —  spare  me,  Lucy  dear  ! 

For  while  life’s  dearest  blood  is  warm, 

Ae  thought  frae  her  shall  ne’er  depart, 
And  she  —  as  fairest  is  her  form  ! 

She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart ! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOODLARK. 

Tune —  Where'll  bonny  Ann  lie  ?  or,  Loch-Erroch  Side. 

YA  STAY,  sweet  warbling  woodlark,  stay ! 

Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray  ; 

A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay. 

Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part, 

That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 

For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 

Wha  kills  me  wi’  disdaining.' 

Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 

And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 


ON  CIILORIS  BEING  ILL.  581 

Oh  !  noclit  but  love  and  sorrow  joined. 

Sic  notes  o’  wo  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  o’  never-ending  care, 

O’  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair  : 

For  pity’s  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair. 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 


ON  CHLORIS  BEING  ILL. 
Tone  —  Aye  wakin?  O 

CHORUS. 


T  ONG,  long  the  night, 

^  Heavy  comes  the  morrow, 
While  my  soul’s  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 


Can  I  cease  to  care  ? 

Can  I  cease  to  languish  V 
While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish  V 

Every  hope  is  fled, 

Every  fear  is  terror  ; 
Slumber  even  I  dread  ; 

Every  dream  is  horror. 

Hear  me,  Powers  divine  ! 

Oh,  in  pity  hear  me  ! 

Take  aught  else  of  mine, 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me  ! 


582  THEIR  GROVES  O'  SWEET  MYRTLE. 


THEIR  GROVES  O’  SWEET  MYRTLE. 

Tune — Humours  of  Glen. 

rTWIEIR  groves  o’  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 
reckon, 

AVhere  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  per¬ 
fume  ; 

Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o’  green  breckan, 

Wi’  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow 
broom. 

Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 

Where  the  bluebell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly  un¬ 
seen  : 

F or  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the  wild  dowel's, 

A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

Though  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny 

valleys, 

And  cauld  Caledonia’s  blast  on  the  wave, 

Their  sweet-scented  woodlands  that  skirt  the 
proud  palace, 

What  are  they  ?  —  the  haunt  of  the  tyrant 
and  slave  ! 

The  slave’s  spicy  forests,  and  gold-bubbling  foun¬ 
tains, 

The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi’  disdain  ; 

He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his  moun¬ 
tains, 

Save  Love’s  willing  fetters  —  the  chains  o’  his 
Jean  ! 


» 


now  CRUEL  ARE  THE  PARENTS.  583 

’T  WAS  NA  HER  BONNY  BLUE  EE  WAS  MY 

RUIN. 

Tuxe  —  Laddie ,  lie  near  me. 

WAS  na  her  bonny  blue  ee  was  my  ruin  : 
Fair  though  she  be,  that  was  ne’er  my  un¬ 
doing  : 

’T  was  the  dear  smile  when  naebody  did  mind  us, 
’T  was  the  bewitching,  sweet,  stown  glance  o’ 
kindness. 

Sair  do  I  fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 

Sair  do  I  fear  that  despair  maun  abide  me  ; 

But  though  fell  fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever, 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for  ever  ! 

Mary,  I ’m  thine  wi’  a  passion  sincerest, 

And  thou  hast  plighted  me  love  o’  the  dearest ; 
And  thou  ’rt  the  angel  that  never  can  alter  ; 
Sooner  the  sun  in  his  motion  would  falter. 

— ♦ — 

HOW  CRUEL  ARE  THE  PARENTS! 

ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD  ENGLISH  SONG. 

Tcxe  —  John  Anderson ,  my  Jo. 

TJ  OW  cruel  are  the  parents 
Who  riches  only  prize, 

And  to  the  wealthy  booby, 

Poor  woman  sacrifice  ! 


584  MARK  YONDER  POMP . 

Meanwhile,  the  hapless  daughter 
Has  but  a  choice  of  strife  ;  — 

To  shun  a  tyrant  father’s  hate, 
Become  a  wretched  wife. 

The  ravening  hawk  pursuing, 
The  trembling:  dove  thus  flies. 

To  shun  impelling  ruin 
Awhile  her  pinions  tries  : 

Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retreat, 

She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer, 
And  drops  beneath  his  feet. 


MARK  YONDER  POMP  OF  COSTLY  FASHION 
Tune  —  Deil  tak  the  Wars. 

IVT  ARK  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion 
Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride  ; 

But  when  compared  with  real  passion, 

Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 

What  are  the  showy  treasures  ? 

What  are  the  noisy  pleasures  ? 

The  gay  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art  : 

The  polished  jewel’s  blaze 
May  draw  the  wondering  gaze, 

And  courtly  grandeur  bright 
The  fancy  may  delight. 

But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  heart. 


FORLORN ,  MY  LOVE. 

But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris, 

In  simplicity’s  array ; 

Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower  is, 
Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day ;  — 

Oh  then,  the  heart  alarming, 

And  all  resistless  charming, 

In  Love’s  delightful  fetters  she  chains  the  willing 
soul ! 

Ambition  would  disown 
The  world’s  imperial  crown, 

Even  Avarice  would  deny 
His  worshipped  deity, 

And  feel  through  every  vein  Love’s  raptures  roll. 


FORLORN,  MY  LOVE,  NO  COMFORT  NEAR. 

Tune  —  Let  me  in  this  ae  Night. 

Tj^ORLORN,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 

A  Far,  far  from  thee,  I  wander  here ; 
Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe 
At  which  I  most  repine,  love. 


CHORUS. 

Oh,  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me, 

But  near,  near,  near  me, 

How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me, 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love ! 


Around  me  scowls  a  wintry  sky, 

That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy ; 


586  LAST  MAY  A  BRAW  WOOER. 

And  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  I, 

Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  love. 

Cold,  altered  Friendship’s  cruel  part, 

To  poison  Fortune’s  ruthless  dart  — 

Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart, 

And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 

But  dreary  though  the  moments  fleet, 

Oh,  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet ! 

That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love. 

— « — 

LAST  MAY  A  BRAW  WOOER. 

Tune  —  The  Lothian  Lassie. 

T  AST  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang 
glen. 

And  sair  wi’  his  love  he  did  deave  me ; 

I  said  there  was  naething  I  hated  like  men ; 

The  deuce  gae  wi’  ’m  to  believe  me,  believe  me  ; 
The  deuce  gae  wi’  ’m  to  believe  me ! 

He  spak  o’  the  darts  o’  my  bonny  black  een. 

And  vowed  for  my  love  he  was  dying ; 

1  said  he  might  die  when  he  liked  for  Jean ; 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying ; 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying ! 

A  well-stocked  mailen — himsel’  for  the  laird  — 
And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffers ; 


LAST  MAY  A  BRAW  WOOER.  587 

I  never  loot  on  that  I  kenned  it,  or  cared, 

But  thought  I  might  hae  warn*  offers,  waur 
offers ; 

But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ?  —  in  a  fortnight  or  less, 
The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her ! 

He  up  the  Gateslack  to  my  black  cousin  Bess, 
Guess  ye  how,  the  j  ad  !  I  could  bear  her,  could 
bear  her ; 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  !  I  could  bear  her  ! 

But  a’  the  niest  week  as  I  fretted  wi’  care, 

I  gaed  to  the  tryste  o’  Dalgarnock, 

And  wha  but  my  fine  fickle  lover  was  there  ! 

I  glowred  as  I ’d  seen  a  warlock,  a  warlock  ; 

I  glowred  as  I ’d  seen  a  warlock. 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him  a  blink, 

Lest  neibors  might  say  I  was  saucy ; 

My  wooer  he  capered  as  he ’d  been  in  drink, 

And  vowed  I  was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie ; 
And  vowed  I  was  his  dear  lassie ! 

I  speered  for  my  cousin  fu’  couthy  and  sweet, 

Gin  she  had  recovered  her  hearin’, 

And  how  my  auld  slioon  fitted  her  shachl’t  feet, 
But,  Heavens  !  how  he  fell  a-swearin’,  a-swearin’ ; 
But,  Heavens  !  how  he  fell  a-swearin’. 

He  begged,  for  guidsake,  I  wad  be  his  wife, 

Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi’  sorrow ; 

So  e’en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 


588  0  THIS  IS  NO  MY  AIN  LASSIE. 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-morrow ; 
I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 


— ♦ — 

WHY,  WHY  TELL  THY  LOVER. 

Tune  —  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight 

XYf  HY,  why  tell  thy  lover, 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ? 

Why,  why  undeceive  him, 

And  give  all  his  hopes  the  lie  ? 

O  why,  while  fancy,  raptured,  slumbers, 
Chloris,  Chloris  all  the  theme, 

Why,  why  wouldst  thou  cruel, 

Wake  thy  lover  from  his  dream  ? 

- 4 - 


0  THIS  IS  NO  MY  AIN  LASSIE. 

Tune  —  This  is  no  my  ain  House. 


CHORUS. 


YA  THIS  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 
Fair  though  the  lassie  be; 
O  weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie, 
Iund  love  is  in  her  ee.1 


I  see  a  form,  I  see  a  face, 

Ye  weel  may  wi’  the  fairest  place ; 

i  The  reader  will  learn  with  surprise  that  the  poet  originally 
wrote  this  chorus  — 

0  this  is  no  my  ain  Body, 

Kind  though  the  Body  be,  etc. 


NOW  SPRING  HAS  CLAD.  589 

It  wants,  to  me,  the  witching  grace, 

The  kind  love  that ’s  in  her  ee. 

She ’s  bonny,  blooming,  straight,  and  tall, 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall ; 

And  aye  it  charms  my  very  saul, 

The  kind  love  that  ’ s  in  her  ee. 

A  thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 

To  steal  a  blink,  by  a’  unseen  ; 

But  gleg  as  light  are  lovers’  e’en, 

When  kind  love  is  in  the  ee. 

It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks, 

It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks  ; 

But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 
The  kind  love  that ’s  in  her  ee. 


NOW  SPRING  HAS  CLAD  THE  GROVE  IN  GREEN 


"XT" OW  spring  has  clad  the  grove  in  green, 
And  strewed  the  lea  Avi’  flowers ; 

The  furrowed,  waving  corn  is  seen 
Rejoice  in  fostering  showers ; 

While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 
Their  sorrows  to  forego, 

O  why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 
The  weary  steps  of  wo  ! 


The  trout  within  yon  wimpling  burn 
Glides  swift  —  a  silver  dart  — 
VOL.  II.  16 


590  NOW  SFRING  HAS  CLAD. 

And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn 
Defies  the  angler’s  art. 

My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream. 

That  wanton  trout  was  I ; 

But  love,  wi’  unrelenting  beam, 

Has  scorched  my  fountains  dry. 

The  little  floweret’s  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliff  that  grows, 

Which,  save  the  linnet’s  flight,  I  wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows, 

Was  mine ;  till  love  has  o’er  me  past, 

And  blighted  a’  my  bloom, 

And  now  beneath  the  withering  blast 
My  youth  and  joy  consume. 

The  wakened  laverock  warbling  springs. 

And  climbs  the  early  sky, 

Winnowing  blithe  her  dewy  wings 
In  morning’s  rosy  eye. 

As  little  recked  I  sorrow’s  power, 

Until  the  flowery  snare 
O’  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour, 

Made  me  the  thrall  o’  care. 

O  had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows, 

Or  Afric’s  burning  zone, 

Wi’  man  and  nature  leagued  my  foes, 

So  Peggy  ne’er  I ’d  known  ! 

The  wretch  whase  doom  is,  “  hope  nae  mair,’ 
What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell ! 

Within  whase  bosom,  save  despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell  ! 


f  NS  CRIP  TION.  591 


0  BONNY  WAS  YON  ROSY  BRIER. 


YA  BONNY  was  yon  rosy  brier 

That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunt  o’  man 
And  bonny  she,  and  ah  !  how  dear  ! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e’enin’  sun. 


1 


Yon  rose-buds  in  the  morning  dew, 

How  pure  amang  the  leaves  sae  green  ! 

But  purer  was  the  lover’s  vow 

They  witnessed  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower, 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sweet  and  fair ! 

But  love  is  far  a  sweeter  flower 
Amid  life’s  thorny  path  o’  care. 

The  pathless  wild  and  wimpling  burn, 

Wi’  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine  ; 

And  I  the  world,  nor  wish,  nor  scorn, 

Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign. 


— ♦ — 

INSCRIPTION 

FOR  AN  ALTAR  TO  INDEPENDENCE,  AT  KERROUGIITEKK 
THE  SEAT  OK  MR.  HERON. 

rPHOU  of  an  independent  mind, 

With  soul  resolved,  with  soul  resigned  ; 
Prepared  Power’s  proudest  frown  to  brave, 
Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a  slave ; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere, 


592  THE  WOODS  OF  DRUMLANRIG. 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear,  — 
Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here  ! 


THE  DUKE  OF  QUEENSBERRY. 


TT OW  shall  I  sing  Drmnlanrig’s  Grace  — 
11  Discarded  remnant  of  a  race 

Once  great  in  martial  story  ? 

His  forbears’  virtues  all  contrasted  — 

The  very  name  of  Douglas  blasted  — 

His  that  inverted  glory. 


Hate,  envy,  oft  the  Douglas  bore  ; 

But  he  has  superadded  more, 

And  sunk  them  in  contempt ; 
Follies  and  crimes  have  stained  the  name, 
But,  Queensberry,  thine  the  virgin  claim, 
From  aught  that ’s  good  exempt. 


♦ 


VERSES  ON  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE 
WOODS  NEAR  DRUMLANRIG. 


A  S  on  the  banks  o’  wandering  Nith, 

Ae  smiling  simmer-morn  I  strayed, 
And  traced  its  bonny  howes  and  haughs, 
Where  Unties  sang  and  lambkins  played, 
I  sat  me  down  upon  a  craig, 

And  drank  my  fill  o’  fancy’s  dream  ; 
When,  from  the  eddying  deep  below, 
Uprose  the  genius  of  the  stream. 


THE  WOODS  OF  DRUMLANRIG .  593 

Dark,  like  the  froAvning  rock,  his  broAv, 

And  troubled,  like  his  wintry  Ava\re, 

And  deep,  as  sughs  the  boding  Avind 
Amang  his  eaves,  the  si<di  he  <rave  :  — 

“  And  came  ye  here,  my  son,”  he  cried, 

“  To  wander  in  my  birken  shade  ? 

To  muse  some  favourite  Scottish  theme, 

Or  sing  some  favourite  Scottish  maid. 

There  was  a  time,  it ’s  nae  lang  syne, 

Ye  might  liac  seen  me  in  my  pride, 

When  a’  my  banks  sae  bravely  saAv 
Their  woody  pictures  in  my  tide  ; 

When  hanging  beech  and  spreading  elm 
Shaded  my  stream  sae  clear  and  cool, 

And  stately  oaks  their  tAA*isted  arms 

Threw  broad  and  dark  across  the  pool  ; 

“  When  glinting,  through  the  trees,  appeared 
The  Avee  white  cot  aboon  the  mill, 

And  peacefu’  rose  its  ingle  reek, 

That  sloAvly  curled  up  the  hill. 

But  iioav  the  cot  is  bare  and  cauld, 

Its  branchy  shelter ’s  lost  and  gane, 

And  scarce  a  stinted  birk  is  left 
To  shiver  in  the  blast  its  lane.” 

“  Alas  !  ”  said  I,  “  Avhat  ruefu’  chance 
Has  tAvined  ye  o’  your  stately  trees  ? 

I  las  laid  your  rocky  bosom  bare  ? 

Idas  stripped  the  deeding  o’  your  braes  V 
Was  it  the  bitter  eastern  blast. 

That  scatters  blight  in  early  spring  ? 


594  ADDRESS  FOR  MISS  FONTENELLE. 

Or  was ’t  the  wil’fire  scorched  their  boughs, 

Or  canker-worm  wi’  secret  sting  ?  ” 

“  Nae  eastlin  blast,”  the  sprite  replied ; 

“  It  blew  na  here  sae  fierce  and  fell ; 

And  on  my  dry  and  halesome  banks 
Nae  canker-worms  get  leave  to  dwell  : 

Man  !  cruel  man  !  ”  the  genius  sighed, 

As  through  the  cliffs  he  sank  him  down, 

“  The  worm  that  gnawed  my  bonny  trees. 

That  reptile  wears  a  ducal  crown.” 

— ♦ — 

ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN  BY  MISS  FONTENELEK  ON  HER  BENEFIT-NIGHT.  * 

O  TILL  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour, 

And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night,  than 
ever, 

A  Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  matter, 

’T  would  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing  better  : 

So  sought  a  Poet,  roosted  near  the  skies, 

Told  him  I  came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes ; 

Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever  printed  ; 

And  last,  my  Prologue-business  slily  hinted. 

“  Ma’am,  let  me  tell  you,”  quoth  my  man  of 
rhymes, 

“  I  know  your  bent  —  these  are  no  laughing  times  : 
Can  you  —  but,  Miss,  I  own  I  have  my  fears  — 
Dissolve  in  pause  and  sentimental  tears, 

With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded  sentence ; 
House  from  his  sluggish  slumbers  fell  Repentance ; 


ADDRESS  FOR  MISS  FONTENELLE.  595 

Paint  Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  horrid  stand, 
Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand, 

Calling  the  storms  to  bear  him  o’er  a  guilty  land  ? 

I  could  no  more  —  askance  the  creature  evin<r, 

D’  ye  think,  said  I,  this  face  was  made  for  crying  ? 
I  ’ll  laugh,  that ’s  poz  —  nay,  more,  the  world  shall 
know  it ; 

And  so,  your  servant,  gloomy  Master  Poet ! 

Firm  as  my  creed,  Sirs,  ’t  is  my  fixed  belief, 

That  Misery ’s  another  word  for  Grief ; 

I  also  think  —  so  may  I  be  a  bride  ! 

That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life  enjoyed. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh, 

Still  under  bleak  Misfortune’s  blasting  eye ; 
Doomed  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive  — 

To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  five ; 

Laugh  in  Misfortune’s  face  —  the  beldam  witch  ! 
Say,  you  ’ll  be  merry,  though  you  can’t  be  rich. 
Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love, 

Who  long  with  jiltish  arts  and  airs  hast  strove ; 
Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur’st  in  desperate  thought  —  a  rope  —  thy 
neck  — 

Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o’erhangs  the  deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap : 

Wouldst  thou  be  cured,  thou  silly,  moping  elf! 
Laugh  at  her  follies  —  laugh  e’en  at  thyself: 

Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now  so  terrific, 

And  love  a  kinder  —  that’s  your  grand  specific. 

To  sum  up  all,  be  merry,  I  advise, 

And  as  we  ’re  merry,  may  we  still  be  wise. 


596  EPISTLE  TO  COLLECTOR  MITCHELL. 


TO  COLLECTOR  MITCHELL. 

T^RIEND  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal, 

Wha,  wanting  thee,  might  beg  or  steal ; 

Alake,  alake,  the  meikle  deil 
Wi’  a’  his  witches 

Are  at  it,  skelpin’  jig  and  reel, 

In  my  poor  pouches  ! 

1  modestly  fu’  fain  wad  hint  it, 

That  one-pound-one,  I  sairly  want  it ; 

If  wi’  the  liizzie  down  ye  sent  it, 

It  would  be  kind ; 

And  while  my  heart  wi’  life-blood  dunted, 

I ’d  bear ’t  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning 

To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 

Wi’  double  plenty  o’er  the  loanin, 

To  thee  and  thine  : 

Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 
The  hale  design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye ’ve  heard  this  while  how  I’ve  been  licket, 

And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket ; 

Grim  loon  !  he  got  me  by  the  fecket, 

And  sair  me  sheuk  ; 

But  by  guid-luek  I  lap  a  wicket, 

And  turned  a  neuk. 


THE  DEAN  OF  FACULTY.  597 

But  by  that  health,  I ’ve  got  a  share  o’ ’t, 

And  by  that  life,  I ’m  promised  mair  o’ ’t, 

My  hale  and  weel  I  ’ll  tak  a  care  o’ ’t, 

A  tentier  way  ; 

Then  farewell  folly,  hide  and  hair  o’ ’t, 

For  ance  and  aye  ! 


THE  DEAN  OF  FACULTY. 

A  BALLAD. 

TAIRE  was  the  hate  at  old  Harlaw, 

^  That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry ; 

And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw, 

For  beauteous  hapless  Mary  ; 

But  Scot  with  Scot  ne’er  met  so  hot, 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen,  Sir, 

Than  ’twixt  Hal  and  Bob  for  the  famous  job  — 
Who  should  be  Faculty’s  Dean,  Sir. 

This  Hal  for  genius,  wit,  and  lore, 

Amono1  the  first  was  numbered  ; 

But  pious  Bob,  ’mid  learning’s  store, 

Commandment  tenth  remembered. 

Yet  simple  Bob  the  victory  got, 

And  won  his  heart’s  desire ; 

Which  shews  that  Heaven  can  boil  the  pot, 

Though  the  devil - in  the  fire. 

© 

Squire  Hal  besides  had  in  this  case 
Pretensions  rather  brassy, 


598  TO  COLONEL  DE  PEYSTER. 

For  talents  to  deserve  a  place 
Are  qualifications  saucy  ; 

So  their  worships  of  the  Faculty, 

Quite  sick  of  merit’s  rudeness, 

Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d’ye  see, 
To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. 

As  once  on  Pisgah  purged  was  the  sight 
Of  a  son  of  Circumcision, 

So  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height, 

Bob’s  purblind,  mental  vision  : 

Nay,  Bobby’s  mouth  may  be  opened  yet. 
Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him, 

And  swear  he  has  the  Angel  met 
That  met  the  Ass  of  Balaam.  , 

In  your  heretic  sins  may  you  live  and  die, 
Ye  heretic  Eight-and-Thirty ! 

But  accept,  ye  sublime  majority, 

My  congratulations  hearty  ! 

With  your  Honours  and  a  certain  King, 

In  your  servants  this  is  striking,  — 

The  more  incapacity  they  bring, 

The  more  they  're  to  your  liking. 

— « — 

TO  COLONEL  DE  PEYSTER. 

1\/TY  honoured  colonel,  deep  I  feel 
x  Your  interest  in  the  poet’s  weal  : 

Ah  !  now  sraa’  heart  hae  I  to  sped 
The  steep  Parnassus, 


TO  COLONEL  DE  PEYSTER.  599 

Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  pill, 

And  potion  glasses. 

O  what  a  canty  warld  were  it, 

Would  pain  and  care  and  sickness  spare  it ; 
And  fortune  favour  worth  and  merit, 

As  they  deserve  ! 

And  aye  a  rowtli  roast-beef  and  claret ; 

Syne,  wha  wad  starve  ? 

Dame  Life,  though  fiction  out  may  trick  her, 
And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck  her  — 

Oh  !  flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker 
I ’ve  found  her  still, 

Aye  wavering  like  the  willow-wicker, 

’Tween  good  and  ill. 

Then  that  curst  Carmagnole,  auld  Satan, 
Watches  like  baudrons  by  a  rattan, 

Our  sinfu’  saul  to  get  a  claut  on 
Wi’  felon  ire ; 

Syne,  whip  !  his  tail  ye  ’ll  ne’er  cast  saut  on  — 
He’s  aff  like  fire. 

Ah  Nick  !  ah  Nick  !  it  is  na  fair, 

First  shewing  us  the  tempting  ware, 

Bright  wines  arid  bonny  lasses  rare, 

To  put  us  daft ; 

Syne  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare 
O’  hell’s  damned  waft. 

Poor  man,  the  flee,  aft  bizzes  by, 

And  aft,  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh, 


600  HEY  FOR  A  LASS  IF/’  A  TOCHEL. 

Thy  auld  damned  elbow  yeuks  wi’  joy, 

And  hellish  pleasure  ; 

Already  in  thy  fancy’s  eye, 

Thy  sicker  treasure  ! 

Soon,  heels-o’er-gowdie  !  in  he  gangs, 

And  like  a  sheep-head  on  a  tangs, 

Thy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 
And  murdering  wrestle, 

As,  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs 
A  gibbet’s  tassel. 

But  lest  you  think  I  am  uncivil, 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drivel, 
Abjuring  a’  intentions  evil, 

I  quat  my  pen  : 

The  Lord  preserve  us  frae  the  devil ! 

Amen  !  Amen  ! 


HEY  FOR  A  LASS  WI’  A  TOCHER. 

Tune  —  Balinamona  ora. 

\  WA’  wi’  your  witchcraft  o’  beauty’s  alarms, 
The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arms 
O  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o’  charms, 

O  gie  me  the  lass  wi’  the  weel-stockit  farms  ! 

CHORUS. 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi’  a  tocher,  then  hey  for  a 
lass  wi’  a  tocher ; 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi’  a  tocher — the  nice 
yellow  guineas  for  me. 


JESS  Y.  601 

Your  beauty’s  a  flower,  in  the  morning  that  blows, 
And  withers  the  faster  the  faster  it  grows, 

But  the  rapturous  charm  o’  the  bonny  green 
knowes, 

Ilk  spring  they’re  new  deckit  wi’  bonny  white 
yowes ! 

And  e’en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has  blest, 
The  brightest  o’  beauty  may  cloy,  when  possest ; 
But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi’  Geordie  imprest, 
The  langer  ye  hae  them,  the  mair  they  ’re  carest. 


♦ 


JESSY. 


CHORUS. 


TTERE  ’S  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear ! 

Here ’s  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear ! 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers 
meet, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear  —  Jessy  ! 


Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 
Although  even  hope  is  denied, 

’T  is  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside  —  Jessy! 


I  mourn  through  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 

As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms, 

But  welcome  the  dream  o’  sweet  slumber, 
For  then  I  am  lock’t  in  thy  arms  —  Jessy  ! 


602  AN  EXCELLENT  NEW  SONG. 

I  guess  by  the  dear  angel,  smile, 

I  guess  by  the  love-rolling  ee  — 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession, 

’Gainst  fortune’s  fell  cruel  decree  —  Jessy! 

— ♦ — 

OH,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD  BLAST 

fAII,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 
On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 

My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I ’d  shelter  thee,  I ’d  shelter  thee  ! 

Or  did  Misfortune’s  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 

Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a’,  to  share  it  a’ ! 

Or  Avere  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare, 
The  desert  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there  ! 

Or  were  I  monarch  o’  the  globe, 

Wi’  thee  to  reign,  wi’  thee  to  reign, 

The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen  ! 

— ♦ — 

AN  EXCELLENT  NEW  SONG. 

Tune  —  Buy  Broom  Besoms. 

"VXTHA  will  buy  my  troggin, 

*  *  Fine  election  ware  ; 


^1Ar  EXCELLENT  NEW  SONG. 

Broken  trade  o’  Broughton, 

A’  in  high  repair. 

Buy  braw  troggin, 

Frae  the  banks  o’  Dee ; 

Wha  wants  troggin 
Let  him  come  to  me  ! 

There ’s  a  noble  earl’s 
Fame  and  high  renown, 

F or  an  auld  sang  — 

It ’s  thought  the  guids  were  stotvn. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here’s  the  worth  o’  Broughton. 

In  a  needle’s  ee  ; 

Here ’s  a  reputation 
Tint  by  Balmaghie. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here ’s  its  stuff  and  lining, 
Cardoness’s  head ; 

Fine  for  a  sodger, 

A’  the  wale  o’  lead. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here ’s  a  little  wadset, 

Buittle’s  scrap  o’  truth, 

Pawned  in  a  gin-shop, 

Quenching  holy  drouth. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here ’s  an  honest  conscience 
Might  a  prince  adorn ; 


603 


604  AN"  EXCELLENT  NEW  SONG. 

Frae  the  downs  o’  Tinwald  — 

So  was  never  worn. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc 

Here’s  armorial  bearings, 

Frae  the  manse  o’  Urr ; 

The  crest,  a  sour  crab-apple, 
Rotten  at  the  core. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here  is  Satan’s  picture, 

Like  a  bizzard  gled, 

Pouncing  poor  Redcastle, 
Sprawlin’  as  a  taed. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here ’s  the  font  where  Douglas 
Stane  and  mortar  names  ; 

Lately  used  at  C[aily] 

Christening  M[urray’s]  crimes. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here ’s  the  worth  and  wisdom 
Collieston  can  boast ; 

By  a  thievish  midge 

They  had  been  nearly  lost. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 

Here  is  Murray’s  fragments 
O’  the  ten  commands, 

Gifted  by  black  Jock, 

To  o-et  them  aff  his  hands. 

o 

Buy  braw  troggin,  etc. 


VERSES  ON  MISS  LEWARS. 

Saw  ye  e’er  sic  troggin  ? 

If  to  buy  ye  ’re  slack, 

Hornie ’s  turnin’  chapman  — 
lie  ’ll  buy  a’  the  pack. 

Buy  braw  troggin 

Frae  the  banks  o’  Dee  ; 
Wha  wants  tro^irin 
Let  him  come  to  me ! 


EPIGRAMS  ON  MISS  LEWARS- 

HHALK  not  to  me  of  savages 
From  Afric’s  burning  sun  ; 

No  savage  e’er  could  rend  my  heart, 
As,  Jessy,  thou  hast  done. 

But  Jessy’s  lovely  hand  in  mine, 

A  mutual  faith  to  plight, 

Not  even  to  view  the  heavenly  choir 
Would  be  so  blest  a  sight. 


TjWLL  me  with  the  rosy  wine, 
Call  a  toast —  a  toast  divine  , 
Give  the  poet’s  darling  flame, 
Lovely  Jessy  be  the  name  ; 

Then  thou  mayest  freely  boast 
Thou  hast  given  a  peerless  toast. 
VOL.  II.  17 


G05 


606  FAIREST  MAID  ON  DEVON  BANKS. 

Q  AY,  sages,  wliat’s  the  charm  on  earth 
^  Can  turn  Death’s  dart  aside  ? 

It  is  not  purity  and  worth,  — 

Else  Jessy  had  not  died. 


~DUT  rarely  seen  since  Nature’s  birth, 
The  natives  of  the  sky  ; 

Yet  still  one  seraph ’s  left  on  earth,  — 
For  Jessy  did  not  die. 


FAIREST  MAID  ON  DEVON  BANKS. 

Tune —  Rothemurchie. 


CHORUS. 


"C^AIREST  maid  on  Devon  banks: 

Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 
Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside, 

And  smile  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do  ? 


Full  well  thou  know’st  I  love  thee  dear: 
Couldst  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear  ? 

Oh,  did  not  love  exclaim,  “  Forbear, 

Nor  use  a  faithful  lover  so  ?  ” 

Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Those  wonted  smiles,  oh,  let  me  share, 
And  by  thy  beauteous  self  I  swear, 

No  love  but  thine  my  heart  shall  know 


CALEDONIA.  607 

CALEDONIA. 

Tune  —  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight. 

rpIERE  was  once  a  day  —  but  old  Time  then 
was  young  — 

That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  her  line, 
From  some  of  your  northern  deities  sprung  : 

(Who  knows  not  that  brave  Caledonia’s  divine  ?) 
From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  domain, 

To  hunt,  or  to  pasture,  or  do  what  she  would  : 
Her  heavenly  relations  there  fixed  her  reign, 

And  pledged  her  their  godheads  to  warrant  it 
♦mod. 

A  lambkin  in  peace,  but  a  lion  in  war, 

The  pride  of  her  kindred  the  heroine  grew  : 
Her  grandsire,  old  Odin,  triumphantly  swore, 

“  Whoe’er  shall  provoke  thee,  the  encounter 
shall  rue  !  ” 

With  tillage  or  pasture  at  times  she  would  sport, 
To  feed  her  fair  flocks  by  her  green  rustling 
corn ; 

But  chiefly  the  woods  were  her  fav’rite  resort, 

Her  darling*;  amusement  the  hounds  and  the  horn. 

Long  quiet  she  reigned,  till  thitherward  steers 
A  flight  of  bold  eagdes  from  Adria’s  strand ; 
Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years, 

They  darkened  the  air,  and  they  plundered  the 
land  : 

Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror  their  cry, 
They ’d  conquered  and  ruined  a  world  beside ; 


608 


CALEDONIA . 


She  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows  let  fly  — 

The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they  died. 

The  fell  harpy-raven  took  wing  from  the  north, 
The  scourge  of  the  seas,  and  the  dread  of  the 
shore ; 

The  wild  Scandinavian  boar  issued  forth 
To  wanton  in  carnage,  and  wallow  in  gore : 

O’er  countries  and  kingdoms  their  fury  prevailed, 
No  arts  could  appease  them,  no  arms  could  repel ; 

But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assailed, 

As  Lanrs  well  can  witness,  and  Loncartie  tell. 

The  Cameleon-savage  disturbed  her  repose, 

With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion,  and  strife ; 

Provoked  beyond  bearing,  at  last  she  arose, 

And  robbed  him  at  once  of  his  hopes  and  his 
life. 

The  Anglian  lion,  the  terror  of  France, 

Oft  prowling,  ensanguined  the  Tweed’s  silver 
flood  ; 

But,  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance, 

He  learned  to  fear  in  his  own  native  wood. 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquered,  and  free, 
Her  bright  course  of  glory  for  ever  shall  run  ; 

For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be ; 

I  ’ll  prove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  the  sun  : 

Rectangle-triangle  the  figure  we  ’ll  choose, 

The  upright  is  Chance,  and  old  Time  is  the  base  ; 

But  brave  Caledonia ’s  the  hypothenuse  ; 

Then  ergo,  she  ’ll  match  them,  and  match  them 
always. 


O  IT n  A  IS  SITE  Til  AT  LO'ES  ME?  609 


0  WHA  IS  SHE  THAT  LO’ES  ME? 

Tone  —  Morag. 

WliA  is  she  that  lo’es  me, 

And  has  my  heart  a^-keeping  ? 

O  sweet  is  she  that  lo’es  me, 

As  dews  o’  simmer  weeping, 

In  tears  the  rose-buds  steeping ! 

O  that ’s  the  lassie  o’  my  heart, 
My  lassie  ever  dearer  ; 

O  that ’s  the  queen  o’  womankind, 
And  ne’er  a  ane  to  peer  her! 

If  thou  shalt  meet  a  lassie 

In  grace  and  beauty  charming, 

That  e’en  thy  chosen  lassie, 

Erewhile  thy  breast  sae  warming, 
Had  ne'er  sic  powers  alarming ; 

O  that ’s  the  lassie,  etc. 

If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking, 

And  thy  attentions  plighted, 

That  ilka  body  talking, 

But  her  by  thee  is  slighted, 

And  thou  art  all  delighted ; 

O  that ’s  the  lassie,  etc. 

If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one, 

When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted, 

If  every  other  fair  one, 


610  0  IV HA  IS  SHE  THAT  LO'ES  ME? 

But  her,  thou  hast  deserted, 

And  thou  art  broken-hearted  ; 

O  that ’s  the  lassie  o’  my  heart, 
My  lassie  ever  dearer ; 

0  that ’s  the  queen  o’  womankind, 
And  ne’er  a  ane  to  peer  her  ! 


VERSICLES  OF  BURNS. 


EPITAPH  FOR  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

HPHE  poor  man  weeps  —  here  Gavin  sleeps, 
Whom  canting  wretches  blamed  : 

But  with  such  as  he,  where’er  he  be, 

May  I  be  saved  or  damned  ! 


EPITAPH  FOR  ROBERT  AIKEN,  Esq. 

J£NOW  thou,  O  stranger  to  the  fame 

Of  this  much-loved,  much-honoured  name  ! 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told) 

A  warmer  heart  Death  ne’er  made  cold. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  CELEBRATED  RULING  ELDER. 

TLXERE  souter  Hood  in  death  does  sleep  — 
To  hell,  if  he ’s  gane  thither, 

Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear  to  keep. 

He  ’ll  baud  it  weel  tliemther. 


612  VERS1CLES. 


ON  WEE  JOHNNY. 

1IIC  JACET  WEE  JOHNNY. 

T \T HOE’ER  tliou  art,  O  reader,  know 
'  '  That  Death  has  murdered  Johnny  ! 
And  here  his  body  lies  fu’  low  — 

For  saul  he  ne’er  had  ony. 


ON  A  NOISY  POLEMIC. 


T)  ELOW  tliir  stanes  lie  Jamie’s  banes : 

0  Death,  it ’s  my  opinion, 

Thou  ne’er  took  such  a  bleth’rin’  bitch 
Into  thy  dark  dominion  ! 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HEN-PECKED  COUNTRY  SQUIRE 


\  S  Father  Adam  first  was  fooled, 
(A  case  that ’s  still  too  common) 
Here  lies  a  man  a  woman  ruled  : 

The  devil  ruled  the  woman. 


EPIGRAM  ON  SAID  OCCASION. 


DEATH,  hadst  thou  but  spared  his  lifet 
Whom  we  this  day  lament, 

We  freely  wad  exchanged  the  wife, 

And  a’  been  weel  content ! 


VERSICLES.  613 

E’en  as  he  is,  canid  in  his  graff, 

The  swap  we  yet  will  do ’t ; 

Tak  thou  the  carline’s  carcass  aff, 

Thou  ’se  get  the  said  to  boot. 

— ♦ — 


ANOTHER. 


Queen  Artemisia,  as  old  stories  tell, 

When  deprived  of  her  husband  she  loved  so 
well, 

In  respect  for  the  love  and  affection  he  shewed 
her, 

She  reduced  him  to  dust,  and  she  drank  off  the 
powder. 


But  Queen  Netherplace,  of  a  different  complexion, 
When  called  on  to  order  the  funeral  direction, 
Would  have  ate  her  dead  lord,  on  a  slender  pre¬ 
tence, 

Not  to  shew  her  respect,  but  —  to  save  the  ex¬ 
pense  1 

— ♦ — 


TAM  THE  CHAPMAN. 


A  S  Tam  the  Chapman  on  a  day 
^  Wi’  Death  forgathered  by  the  way, 
Weel  pleased,  he  greets  a  wight  sae  famous, 
And  Death  was  nae  less  pleased  wi’  Thamas ; 
Wha  cheerfully  lays  down  his  pack, 

And  there  blaws  up  a  hearty  crack. 


614  VERSTCLES. 

His  social,  friendly,  honest  heart 
Sae  tickled  Death,  they  couldna  part : 

Sae,  after  viewing  knives  and  garters, 
Death  taks  him  hame  to  gie  him  quarters. 

— ♦ — 

VERSES  TO  JOHN  RANKINE. 

\  E  day,  as  Death,  that  greusome  carle, 
Was  driving;  to  the  titlier  warl’ 

A  mixtie-maxtie,  motley  squad, 

And  monie  a  guilt-bespotted  lad.  — 

Black  gowns  of  each  denomination, 

And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station, 
From  him  that  weal's  the  star  and  garter, 
To  him  that  wintles  in  a  halter  — 
Ashamed  himseT  to  see  the  wretches, 

He  mutters,  glowrin’  at  the  bitches : 

“  By  G — ,  I  ’ll  not  be  seen  behint  them, 
Nor  ’mang  the  sp’ritual  core  present  them, 
Without,  at  least,  ae  honest  man, 

To  grace  this  d — d  infernal  clan.” 

By  Adamhill  a  glance  he  threw, 

“  L —  G —  !  ”  quoth  he,  “  1  have  it  now  , 
There ’s  just  the  man  I  want,  i’  faith  !  ” 
And  quickly  stoppit  Bankine’s  breath. 


VERSICLES. 


615 

ON  MISS  J.  SCOTT,  OF  AYR. 


YAH,  had  each  Scot  of  ancient  times, 
^  Been  Jeany  Scott,  as  thou  art, 
The  bravest  heart  on  English  ground, 
Had  yielded  like  a  coward  ! 


— « — 

THE  BOOK-WORMS. 

rJMIROUGH  and  through  tlT  inspired  leaves, 
Ye  maggots,  make  your  windings ; 

But  oh  !  respect  his  lordship’s  taste, 

And  spare  the  golden  bindings. 

— ♦ — 


GRACES  BEFORE  MEAT. 


COME  hae  meat  and  canna  eat, 

^  And  some  would  eat  that  want  it ; 
But  we  hae  meat  and  we  can  eat, 

Sae  let  the  Lord  be  thankit. 


TIIOU,  who  kindly  dost  provide 
For  every  creature’s  want, 

We  bless  Thee,  God  of  Nature  wide, 

For  all  Thy  goodness  lent ! 

And,  if  it  please  Thee,  heavenly  guide, 
May  never  worse  be  sent ; 

But  whether  granted  or  denied, 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content!  Amen! 


616  VERSrCLES. 

THOU,  in  whom  we  live  and  move, 
^  Who  madst.  the  sea  and  shore, 

Thy  goodness  constantly  we  prove, 

And  grateful  would  adore  ! 

And  if  it  please  Thee,  Power  above, 
Still  grant  us,  with  such  store, 

The  friend  we  trust,  the  fair  we  love, 
And  we  desire  no  more. 


EXTEMPORANEOUS  GRACE  ON  A  HAGGIS. 


“YTE  powers  wha  gie  us  a’  that ’s  guid, 
Still  bless  auld  Caledonia’s  brood, 
Wi’  great  John  Barleycorn’s  heart’s  bluid, 
In  stoups  or  higgles  ; 

And  on  our  board  the  king  o’  food, 

A  glorious  haggis  ! 


— ♦ 

TO  A  PAINTER. 

TYEAR - ,  I  ’ll  gie  ye  some  advice, 

You  ’ll  tak  it  no  uncivil : 

You  sliouldna  paint  at  angels  mair, 

But  try  and  paint  the  devil. 

To  paint  an  angel ’s  kittle  wark, 

Wi’  auld  Nick  there ’s  less  danger ; 
You  ’ll  easy  draw  a  weel-kent  face, 

But  no  sae  weel  a  stranger. 


VERSICLES. 


617 


ON  MR.  W.  CRUIKSHANK, 

OF  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL,  EDINBURGH. 

TT  ONE  ST  Will  to  heaven  is  gane, 
And  monie  shall  lament  him  ; 
His  faults  they  a’  in  Latin  lay, 

In  English  nane  e’er  kent  them. 

O 


ON  MR.  W.  NICOL. 


V^E  maggots,  feed  on  Nicol’s  brain, 
^  For  few  sic  feasts  ye  ’ve  gotten  ; 
You ’ve  got  a  prize  o’  Willie’s  heart, 
For  deil  a  bit  o’ ’t ’s  rotten. 


ON  MR.  W.  MICHIE, 

SCHOOLMASTER,  CLEISH,  FIFESIIIRE. 

tTERE  lie  Willie  Michie’s  banes ; 

O  Satan,  when  ye  tak  him, 

Gie  him  the  schoolin’  o’  your  weans, 
For  clever  deils  he  ’ll  male  ’em ! 


ON  MISS  BURNS. 

Y'lEASE,  ye  prudes,  your  envious  railings, 
^  Lovely  Burns  has  charms,  confess : 
True  it  is,  she  had  one  failing  — 

Had  a  woman  ever  less  ? 


VERSICLES. 


618 

WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH. 

A  CAULD  day  December  blew  ; 

A  cauld  kirk,  and  in ’t  but  few  ; 

A  caulder  minister  ne’er  spak  ; 

It  will  be  lang  ere  I  come  back. 

— ♦ — 


TO  MRS.  DAVID  WILSON. 

IV/TY  blessings  on  ye,  honest  wife, 

I  ne’er  was  here  before ; 

Ye ’ve  wealth  o’  gear  for  spoon  and  knife  — 
Heart  could  not  wish  for  more. 


Heaven  keep  you  clear  of  sturt  and  strife, 
Till  far  ayont  fourscore, 

And  by  the  Lord  o’  death  and  life, 

I  ’ll  ne’er  gae  by  your  door ! 


VERSE  ON  MISS  AINSLIE. 

T^AIR  maid,  you  need  not  take  the  hint, 

Nor  idle  texts  pursue  : 

’T  was  guilty  sinners  that  he  meant  — 

Not  angels  such  as  you ! 

— ♦ — 

SYMON  GRAY. 

A  youn£  man  named  Symon  Gray,  the  son  of  a  respect¬ 
ive  citizen  of  Dunse,  had  addicted  himself  to  the  unprofit- 


VERSTCLES.  619 

able  service  of  the  Muse,  and  hearing  of  the  Ayrshire 
bard  being  at  Berry  well,  he  took  the  liberty  of  sending  a 
specimen  of  his  verse  for  Burns's  opinion.  The  poet  gave 
it  a  hasty  perusal,  and  returned  it  with  merely  the  re¬ 
mark  : 

Symon  Gray, 

You  ’re  dull  to-day. 

Symon,  not  abashed,  immediately  sent  a  fregh  packet, 
which  the  poet  as  quickly  returned,  with  an  inscription  on 
the  outside: 

Dulness,  with  redoubled  sway, 

Has  seized  the  wits  of  Symon  Gray. 

Strange  to  say,  two  rebuffs  were  insufficient  to  take  the 
edge  from  Symon’s  vanity,  and  he  sent  a  third  packet 
containing  several  of  his  most  elaborate  performances.  It 
came  too  late  to  admit  of  Burns  paying  it  any  immediate 
attention,  as  he  was  about  to  proceed  on  an  excursion  to 
the  eastern  parts  of  the  country;  but  on  his  return  a  few 
days  after  to  Benywell,  he  took  it  up,  and  gave  its  author 
the  coup-de-grace ,  as  follows:  — 

Dear  Symon  Gray, 

The  other  day. 

When  you  sent  me  some  rhyme, 

I  could  not  then  just  ascertain 
Its  worth,  for  want  of  time. 

But  now  to-day,  good  Mr.  Gray, 

I  ’ve  read  it  o’er  and  o’er, 

Tried  all  my  skill,  but  find  I  ’in  still 
Just  where  I  was  before. 

We  auld  wives’  minions,  gie  our  opinions, 
Solicited  or  no ; 

Then  of  its  faults  my  honest  thoughts 
I  ’ll  give  —  and  here  they  go. 


VERSICLE8. 


620 


We  can  scarcely  present  before  good  company  the 
opinion  of  the  bard  in  its  entire  form;  but  the  reader  will 
have  an  idea  of  its  general  bearing  from  one  passage: 

Such  damned  bombast  no  age  that ’s  past 
Will  shew,  or  time  to  come. 


♦ 


ANSWER  TO  AN  INVITATION. 
OUR  billet,  sir,  I  grant  receipt; 


J-  wi’  you  I  ’ll  canter  ony  gate, 
Though ’t  were  a  trip  to  yon  blue  warl’, 
Whare  birkies  march  on  burning  marl : 
Then,  sir,  God  willing,  I  ’ll  attend  ye, 
And  to  his  goodness  I  commend  ye. 


♦ 


WRITTEN  ON  A  WINDOW  OF  THE  CROSS 
KEYS  INN  AT  FALKIRK.  [?] 


OUND  be  his  sleep  and  blithe  his  morn, 
That  never  did  a  lassie  wrang ; 

Who  poverty  ne’er  held  in  scorn, 

For  misery  ever  tholed  a  pang. 


♦ 


WRITTEN  ON  A  WINDOW  OF  THE  INN  AT 

CAR  RON. 

cam  na  here  to  view  your  warks 
'  In  hopes  to  be  mair  wise, 

But  only,  lest  we  gang  to  hell, 

It  may  be  nae  surprise. 


VERSICLES. 


621 


But  wlian  we  tirled  at  your  door, 

Your  porter  dought  na  hear  us ; 

Sae  may,  should  we  to  hell’s  yetts  come, 
Your  billy  Satan  sair  us  ! 


♦ 


VERSES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  WINDOW  OF  AM 
INN  AT  STIRLING. 


ATTRIBUTED  TO  BURNS. 


TLTERE  Stuarts  once  in  triumph  reigned, 
And  laws  for  Scotland’s  weal  orda*  aed  ; 
But  now  unroofed  this  palace  stands, 

Their  sceptre ’s  fallen  to  other  hands. 

The  injured  Stuarts’  line  are  gone, 

A  race  outlandish  fills  their  throne,  — 

An  idiot  race,  to  honour  lost : 

Who  know  them  best  despise  them  most. 


♦ 


ON  ELPHINSTONE’S  MARTIAL. 

YAH  thou,  whom  poesy  abhors! 

Whom  prose  has  turned  out  of  doors ! 
Ileardst  thou  yon  groan  ?  Proceed  no  further  ; 
’T  was  laurel’d  Martial  calling;  murther  I 

O 


♦ 


ON  A  FRIEND. 


N  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest 
As  e’er  God  with  His  image  blest ! 


VOL.  II. 


18 


VERSICLES. 


622 

The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth. 

Few  hearts  like  his,  with  virtue  wanned, 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  informed : 
If  there ’s  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss ; 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 

— • — 

HOWLET  FACE. 

H°5  daur  ye  ca’  me  ncwlet-faced, 
Ye  ugly,  glowering  spectre  ? 

My  face  was  but  the  keekin’  glass 
An’  there  ye  saw  your  picture.” 


— i — 

THE  SOLEMN  LEAGUE  AND  COVENANT 

upHE  Solemn  League  and  Covenant 

Cost  Scotland  blood  —  cost  Scotland  tears , 
But  it  sealed  Freedom’s  sacked  cause  — 

If  thou  ’rt  a  slave,  indulge  thy  sneers. 


ON  A  CERTAIN  PARSON’S  LOOKS. 

HPHAT  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 
I  must  and  will  deny ; 

They  say  their  master  is  a  knave  — 
And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


VERS  I  CL  ES. 


WILLIE  STEWART. 


X7" OU  ’RE  welcome,  Willie  Stewart ; 

A  You  ’re  welcome,  Willie  Stewart ; 
There ’s  ne’er  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May, 
That ’s  half  sae  welcome ’s  thou  art. 


Come,  bumpers  high,  express  your  joy, 
The  bowl  we  maun  renew  it ; 

The  tappit-hen,  gae  bring  her  ben, 

To  welcome  Willie  Stewart. 


May  foes  be  strang,  and  friends  be  slack, 
Ilk  action  may  he  rue  it, 

May  woman  on  him  turn  her  back, 

That  Avrangs  thee,  Willie  Stewart 


ANDREW  TURNER. 

TN  seventeen  hundred  forty-nine, 

"*■  Satan  took  stuff  to  make  a  swine. 
And  cuist  it  in  a  corner : 

But  wilily  he  changed  his  plan, 

And  shaped  it  something  like  a  man, 
And  ca’d  it  AndreAv  Turner ! 


VERSES  TO  JOHN  M’MURDO,  Esq., 

AVITH  A  PRESENT  OF  BOOKS. 


AH,  could  I  give  thee  India’s  Avealth, 
^  As  I  this  trifle  send, 


623 


624 


VERSICLES. 


Because  thy  joy  in  both  would  be 
To  share  them  with  a  friend  1 

But  golden  sands  did  never  grace 
The  Heliconean  stream  ; 

Then  take  Avhat  gold  could  never  buy  — 
An  honest  bard’s  esteem. 


♦ 


ON  MR.  M’MURDO. 


INSCRIBED  ON  A  PANE  OF  GLASS  IN  IIIS  HOUSE. 

T)  LEST  be  M’Murdo  to  his  latest  day  ! 

^  No  envious  cloud  o’ercast  his  evening  ray ; 
No  wrinkle  furrowed  by  the  hand  of  care, 

Nor  ever  sorrow  add  one  silver  hair  1 
Oh,  may  no  son  the  father’s  honour  stain, 

Nor  ever  daughter  give  the  mother  pain  ! 


♦ 


WRITTEN  ON  A  WINDOW  OF  THE  GLOBE 
TAVERN,  DUMFRIES. 

graybeard,  old  Wisdom,  may  boast  of  his 


treasures, 

Give  me  with  gay  Folly  to  live ; 

I  grant  him  his  calm-blooded,  time-settled  pleas- 
ures, 

But  Folly  has  raptures  to  give. 


VERS1CLES.  625 


EXCISEMEN  UNIVERSAL. 

WRITTEN  ON  A  WINDOW. 

yE  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  why  all  this  sneer¬ 
ing: 

o 

'Gainst  poor  excisemen  ?  give  the  cause  a  hearing. 

What  are  your  landlords’  rent-rolls  ?  teasing  ledg¬ 
ers  : 

What  premiers  —  what  ?  even  monarchs’  mighty 
gaugers  : 

Nay,  what  are  priests,  those  seeming  godly  wise 
men  ? 

What  are  they,  pray,  but  spiritual  excisemen  ? 


dN  A  GROTTO  IN  FRIARS’  CARSE  GROUNDS. 


T°  Riddel,  much-lamented  man, 
This  ivied  cot  was  dear ; 

Reader,  dost  value  matchless  worth  ? 
This  ivied  cot  revere. 


♦ 


ON  A  NOTED  COXCOMB. 

J^IGIIT  lay  the  earth  on  Billy’s  breast, 

His  chicken  heart ’s  so  tender : 

■»  ’ 

But  build  a  castle  on  his  head, - 

His  skull  will  prop  it  under. 


VERSICLES. 


626 


ON  COMMISSARY  GOLDIE’S  BRAINS. 

T  ORD,  to  account  who  dares  thee  call, 
^  Or  e’er  dispute  thy  pleasure  ? 

Else  why  within  so  thick  a  wall 
Enclose  so  poor  a  treasure  ? 

— * — 

EPITAPH  ON  MR.  GABRIEL  RICHARDSON, 
BREWER,  DUMFRIES. 

XT  ERE  brewer  Gabriel’s  fire ’s  extinct, 
And  empty  all  his  barrels  ; 

He ’s  blest  if  as  he  brewed  he  drink, 

In  upright  honest  morals. 


EPITAPH  FOR  A  DOG. 

TN  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng. 
Your  heavy  loss  deplore  ! 

Now  half  extinct  your  powers  of  song,  — 
Sweet  Echo  is  no  more. 

Ye  jarring,  screeching  things  around, 
Scream  your  discordant  joys  ! 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  song 
With  Echo  silent  lies. 


VERS  I  CL  ES. 


627 


EPIGRAM. 

YX^HEN  - ,  deceased,  to  the  devil  went 

down, 

’T  was  nothing  would  serve  him  but  Satan’s  own 
crown  ; 

“  Thy  fool’s  head,”  quoth  Satan,  “  that  crown  shall 
wear  never, 

I  grant  thou  ’rt  as  wicked,  but  not  quite  so  clever.” 

— • — 


IMPROMPTU 

ON  MRS.  RIDDEL’S  BIRTHDAY,  4xil  NOVEMBER,  1793. 

Winter,  with  his  frosty  beard, 

Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferred  : 

“  What  have  I  done  of  all  the  year, 

To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 

My  cheerless  suns  no  pleasure  know ; 

Night’s  horrid  car  drags,  dreary  slow ; 

My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning. 

But  spleeny  English,  hanging,  drowning. 

u  Now,  Jove,  for  once  be  mighty  civil, 

To  counterbalance  all  this  evil ; 

Give  me,  and  I ’ve  no  more  to  say, 

Give  me  Maria’s  natal-day  ! 

That  brilliant  gift  shall  so  enrich  me, 

Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  cannot  match  me.” 

“  T  is  done  !  ”  says  Jove  ;  so  ends  my  story, 
And  Winter  once  rejoiced  in  glory. 


628 


VERST  CLES. 


TO  DR.  MAXWELL : 

ON  MISS  JESSY  STAIG'S  RECOVERY  FROM  A  FEVER. 


■'jV/T AXWELL,  if  merit  here  you  crave, 
That  merit  I  deny : 

You  save  fair  Jessy  from  the  grave  ?  — 


An  ansrel  could  not  die  ! 

O 


ON  SEEING  MRS.  KEMBLE  IN  YARICO 

TZ’EMBLE,  thou  cur’st  my  unbelief 
.LV  Qf  Moses  and  his  rod  ; 

At  Yarico’s  sweet  notes  of  grief 
The  rock  with  tears  had  flowed. 


ON  W -  R - ,  Esq. 

OO  vile  was  poor  Wat,  such  a  miscreant  slave, 
^  That  the  worms  even  damned  him  when  laid 
in  his  grave ; 

“  In  his  skull  there  is  famine  !  ”  a  starved  reptile 
cries ; 

And  his  heart  it  is  poison  !  ”  another  replies. 


VERSICLES.  629 


EPIGRAM. 

✓ 

■VT  0  more  of  your  titled  acquaintances  boast, 

'  And  in  what  lordly  circles  you ’ve  been  : 

An  insect  is  still  but  an  insect  at  most, 

Though  it  crawl  on  the  head  of  a  queen. 

— ♦ — 

TO  MR.  SYME. 

On  sending  Mr.  Syme  a  dozen  of  porter  from  t he  Jeru¬ 
salem  Tavern  of  Dumfries,  Burns  accompanied  the  gift 
with  a  complimentary  note. 

{"AH,  had  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind, 

Or  hops  the  flavour  of  thy  wit, 

’T  were  drink  for  first  of  human  kind, 

A  gift  that  even  for  Syme  were  fit. 

At  Syme’s  own  house,  being  pressed  to  stay  and  drink 
more,  Burns  hesitated;  then  taking  up  a  tumbler,  he  scrib¬ 
bled  on  it: 

There ’s  Death  in  the  cup,  sae  beware  — - 
Nay,  mair,  there  is  danger  in  touching ; 

But  wha  can  avoid  the  fell  snare  ? 

The  man  and  his  wine ’s  sae  bewitching. 

So  late  as  the  17th  December,  1795,  when  Burns  was  in 
declining  health,  being  invited  by  Syme  to  dine,  with  a 
promise  of  the  best  company  and  the  best  cookery,  he  ac¬ 
companied  his  apolog}’  with  a  similar  compliment: 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not, 
And  cookery  the  first  in  the  nation ; 

Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and  wit. 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


630  VERSICLES. 


WRITTEN  EXTEMPORE  IN  A  LADY’S  POCKET- 

BOOK.  ' 

/  A  RANT  me,  indulgent*  Heaven,  that  I  may  live, 
^  To  see  the  miscreants  feel  the  pains  they  give : 
Deal  Freedom’s  sacred  treasures  free  as  air, 

Till  slave  and  despot  be  but  things  which  were 


THE  CREED  OF  POVERTY. 

J^N  politics  if  thou  wouldst  mix, 

And  mean  thy  fortunes  be; 

Bear  this  in  mind,  be  deaf  and  blind, 
Let  great  folks  hear  and  see. 


ON  THE  “LOYAL  NATIVES.” 


Y7"E  true  Loyal  Natives,  attend  to  my  song ! 

In  uproar  and  riot  rejoice  the  night  long; 
From  envy  and  hatred  your  corps  is  exempt, 

But  where  is  your  shield  from  the  darts  of  con¬ 
tempt  ? 


ON  JOHN  BUSHBY,  WRITER,  DUMFRIES. 


YTERE  lies  John  Busliby,  honest  man  ! 
A  Cheat  him,  devil,  if  you  can. 


VERSICLES. 


TO  MISS  JESSY  LEWARS, 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  BOOKS. 

^JTHINE  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair, 

And  with  them  take  the  Poet’s  prayer 
That  Fate  may  in  her  fairest  page, 

With  every  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enrol  thy  name ; 

With  native  worth,  and  spotless  fame, 

And  wakeful  caution  still  aware 
Of  ill  —  but  chief,  man’s  felon  snare. 

All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find, 

And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind, 

These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward ; 

So  prays  thy  faithful  friend,  the  Bard. 


THE  EARL  OF  GALLOWAY. 


AT  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair  ? 
Flit,  Galloway,  and  find 
Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave, 

The  picture  of  thy  mind ! 


'VT  0  Stewart  art  thou,  Galloway, 

^  The  Stewarts  all  were  brave ; 
Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fools, 
Not  one  of  them  a  knave. 


G31 


632  VERSICLES. 

RIGHT  ran  thy  line,  O  Galloway, 
Through  many  a  far-famed  sire  : 
So  ran  the  far-famed  Roman  way,  — 
So  ended  in  a  mire. 


QPARE  me  rhy  vengeance,  Galloway, 
^  In  quiet  let  me  live  : 

I  ask  no  kindness  at  thy  hand, 

For  thou  hast  none  to  give. 


OLD  SONGS,  IMPROVED  BY  BURNS. 


FROM  JOHNSON’S  MUSEUM. 


♦ 


0  WHARE  DID  YOU  GET? 


Tune  —  Bonny  Dundee. 


WHARE  did  you  get  that  hauver  meal  ban¬ 


nock  ? 


O  silly  blind  body,  O  dinna  ye  see  ? 

I  gat  it  frae  a  brisk  young  sodger  laddie, 

Between  St.  Johnston  and  bonny  Dundee. 

O  gin  I  saw  the  laddie  that  gae  me ’t ! 

Aft  has  he  doudled  me  upon  his  knee ; 

May  Heaven  protect  my  bonny  Scots  laddie, 

And  send  him  safe  hame  to  his  babie  and  me  ! 

My  blessin’s  upon  thy  sweet  wee  lippie, 

My  blessin’s  upon  thy  bonny  ee-bree ! 

Thy  smiles  are  sae  like  my  blithe  sodger  laddie, 
Thou ’s  aye  the  dearer  and  dearer  to  me  1 

But  I  ’ll  big  a  bower  on  yon  bonny  banks, 

Where  Tay  rins  wimplin’  by  sae  clear ; 

And  I  ’ll  deed  thee  in  the  tartan  sae  fine, 

And  mak  thee  a  man  like  thy  daddie  dear. 


634  UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 


I  AM  MY  MAMMY’S  AE  BAIRN. 

Tune  —  JVn  owre  young  to  Marry  yet. 

AM  my  mammy’s  ae  bairn, 

Wi’  unco  folk  I  weary,  sir ; 

And  if  I  gang  to  your  house, 

I ’m  fleyed ’t  will  make  me  eerie,  sir. 

I ’m  owre  young  to  marry  yet ; 

I ’m  owre  young  to  marry  yet ; 

I ’m  owre  young  —  ’t  wad  be  a  sin 
To  tak  me  frae  my  mammy  yet. 

Hallowmas  is  come  and  gane, 

The  nights  are  lang  in  winter,  sir ; 
And  you  and  I  in  wedlock’s  bands, 

In  troth,  I  dare  na  venture,  sir. 

Fu’  loud  and  shrill  the  frosty  wind 

Blaws  through  the  leafless  timmer,  sir  ; 
But  if  ye  come  this  gate  again, 

I  ’ll  aulder  be  gin  simmer,  sir. 

— ♦— 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 
Tune  —  Cold  blows  the  Wind. 


CHORUS. 


TTP  in  the  morning ’s  no  for  me, 

^  Up  in  the  morning  early  ; 

When  a’  the  hills  are  covered  wi’  snaw, 
I ’m  sure  it ’s  winter  fairly. 


THERE  WAS  A  LASS. 

Canid  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west, 
The  drift  is  driving  sairly  ; 

Sae  loud  and  shrill  I  hear  the  blast, 

I ’m  sure  it ’s  winter  fairly. 

The  birds  sit  cluttering  in  the  thorn, 

A’  day  they  tare  but  sparely ; 

And  lang  ’s  the  night  frae  e’en  to  mom  - 
I  ’in  sure  it ’s  winter  fairly. 


♦ 


THERE  WAS  A  LASS. 

Tune  —  Duncan  Davison. 

HTHERE  was  a  lass,  they  cad  her  Meg, 
And  she  held  o’er  the  moors  to  spin  , 
There  was  a  lad  that  followed  her, 

They  ca’d  him  Duncan  Davison. 

The  moor  was  dreigli,  and  Meg  was  skeigh, 
Her  favour  Duncan  could  na  win  ; 

For  wi’  the  rock  she  wad  him  knock, 

And  aye  she  took  the  temper-pin. 

As  o’er  the  moor  they  lightly  foor, 

A  burn  was  clear,  a  glen  was  green, 
Upon  the  banks  they  eased  their  shanks, 
And  aye  she  set  the  wheel  between  : 

But  Duncan  swore  a  lialv  aitli. 

That  Meg  should  be  a  bride  the  morn, 
Then  Meg  took  up  her  spinnin’  graith, 

And  flang  them  a’  out  o’er  the  burn. 


635 


LADY  ONLIE. 


636 

We’ll  big  a  house  —  a  wee,  wee  house, 
And  we  will  live  like  king  and  queen, 
Sae  blithe  and  merry  we  will  be 
When  ye  set  by  the  wheel  at  e’en. 

A  man  may  drink  and  no  be  drunk  ; 

A  man  may  fight  and  no  be  slain  ; 

A  man  may  kiss  a  bonny  lass, 

And  aye  be  welcome  back  again. 


LADY  ONLIE. 

\ 

Tune  —  The  Ruffian’s  Rant. 

\  ’  THE  lads  o’  Thornie-bank, 

When  they  gae  to  the  shore  o’  Bucky. 
They  ’ll  step  in  and  tak  a  pint 
Wi’  Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky  ! 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky  ! 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o’  Bucky ; 

I  wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale, 

The  best  on  a’  the  shore  o’  Bucky. 


Her  house  sae  bien,  her  curch  sae  clean, 

I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chucky ; 

And  cheerlie  blinks  the  ingle-gleed 
Of  Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky  ! 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky  ! 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o’  Bucky  ; 
I  wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale, 

The  best  on  a’  the  shore  o’  Bucky. 


MY  HOGGIE. 


637 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 


ploughman  lie’s  a  bonny  lad. 

His  mind  is  ever  true,  jo, 

His  garters  knit  below  his  knee, 

His  bonnet  it  is  blue,  jo. 

Then  up  wi’  ’t  a’,  my  ploughman  lad, 
And  hey  my  merry  ploughman ; 

Of  a’  the  trades  that  I  do  ken, 
Commend  me  to  the  ploughman. 

I  hae  been  east,  I  hae  been  west, 

I  hae  been  at  St.  Johnston  ; 

The  bonniest  sight  that  e’er  I  saw, 

Was  the  ploughman  laddie  dancin’. 

Up  wi’  ’t,  etc. 

Snaw-white  stockings  on  his  legs, 

And  siller  buckles  glancin’ ; 

A  guid  blue  bonnet  on  his  head, 

And  oh,  but  he  was  handsome. 

Up  wi’  ’t,  etc. 


♦ 


MY  HOGGIE. 


will  I  do  gin  my  hoggie  die, 


My  joy,  my  pride,  my  hoggie  ? 
My  only  beast,  I  had  nae  mae, 

And  oh,  but  I  was  vogie. 


VOL.  II. 


19 


638  SIMMER'S  A  PLEASANT  TIME. 

The  lee-lang  night  we  watched  the  fauld, 
Me  and  my  faithfu’  doggie, 

We  heard  nought  but  the  roaring  linn, 
Amang  the  braes  sae  scroggie. 

But  the  howlet  cried  frae  the  castle  wa’, 
The  blutter  frae  the  boggie, 

The  tod  replied  upon  the  hill  — 

I  trembled  for  my  hoggie. 

When  day  did  daw  and  cocks  did  craw, 
The  morning  it  was  foggie, 

An  unco  tyke  lap  o’er  the  dyke, 

And  maist  has  killed  my  hoggie. 


SIMMER’S  A  PLEASANT  TIME. 

Tdne  —  Aye  Waukin  O. 

Q IMMER  ’S  a  pleasant  time, 

^  Flowers  of  every  colour  ; 

The  water  rins  o’er  the  heugh, 

And  1  long  for  my  true  lover. 
Aye  waukin  O, 

Waukin  still  and  wearie  : 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie, 

When  I  sleep  I  dream, 

When  I  wauk  I ’m  eerie  : 

Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 


.  AM  IE,  COME  TRY  ME. 


639 


Lanely  night  comes  on, 

A’  the  lave  are  sleeping ; 

I  think  on  my  bonny  lad, 

And  bleer  my  een  wi’  greetin’. 


♦ 


FIRST  WHEN  MAGGY  WAS  MY  CARE. 

Tune  —  Whistle  o'er  the  Lave  o' 't. 

THIRST  when  Maggy  was  my  care, 
Heaven  I  thought  was  in  her  air  ; 
Now  we  ’re  married  —  spier  nae  mair  - 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’ ’t. 

Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild, 
Bonny  Meg  was  Nature’s  child ; 

Wiser  men  than  me ’s  beguiled  — 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’ ’t. 

How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me, 

How  we  love,  and  how  we  ’gree, 

I  care  na  by  how  few  may  see  — 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’ ’t. 

Wha  I  wish  were  maggots’  meat, 

Dished  up  in  her  winding-sheet, 

I  could  write  —  but  Meg  maun  see ’t  — 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’ ’t. 


♦ 


JAMIE,  COME  TRY  ME. 

AMIE,  come  try  me  ; 
Jamie,  come  try  me  ; 


640 


AWA',  WHIGS ,  AWA'f 

If  thou  would  win  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me. 

If  thou  should  ask  my  love, 
Could  I  deny  thee  ? 

If  thou  would  win  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me. 

If  thou  should  kiss  me,  love, 
Wha  could  espy  thee  ? 

If  thou  would  be  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me. 


AW  A',  WHIGS,  AWA’  ! 

Tune  —  Awa\  Whigs,  Awa1. 

CHORUS. 

A  WA\  Whigs,  awa’ ! 

Awa’,  Whigs,  awa’ ! 

Ye  ’re  but  a  pack  o’  traitor  louns, 

Ye  ’ll  do  nae  good  at  a’. 

Our  thrissles  flourished  fresh  and  fair, 
And  bonny  bloomed  our  roses  ; 

But  Whigs  came  like  a  frost  in  June, 
And  withered  a’  our  posies. 

Our  ancient  crown ’s  fa’n  in  the  dust  — 
Deil  blin’  them  wi’  the  stour  o’ ’t ; 

And  write  their  names  in  his  black  beuk, 
Wha  gae  the  Whigs  the  power  o’ ’t. 


WIJ ARE  UAE  YE  BEEN? 


641 


Our  sad  decay  in  Church  and  State 
Surpasses  my  descriving  ; 

The  W  higs  came  o’er  us  for  a  curse, 
And  we  hae  done  wi’  thriving;. 

Grim  vengeance  lang  has  ta’en  a  nap, 
But  we  may  see  him  wauken  ; 
Gude  help  the  day  when  royal  heads 
Are  hunted  like  a  maukin  ! 


WHARE  HAE  YE  BEEN  ? 

Tune  —  Killiecrankie. 

\\THARE  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  V 
Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  brankie,  O  V 
Oh,  whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  ? 

Cam  ye  by  Killiecrankie,  O  ? 

An’  ye  had  been  whare  I  hae  been, 

Ye  wad  na  been  sae  cantie,  O  ; 

An’  ye  had  seen  what  I  hae  seen, 

On  the  braes  o’  Killiecrankie,  O. 

I  fought  at  land,  I  fought  at  sea  ; 

At  liame  I  fought  my  auntie,  O  ; 

But  I  met  the  devil  and  Dundee, 

On  the  braes  o’  Killiecrankie,  O. 

The  bauld  Pitcur  fell  in  a  furr, 

And  Clavers  got  a  clankie,  O, 

Or  I  had  fed  an  Athole  gled, 

On  the  braes  o’  Killiecrankie,  O. 


042  CA’  THE  EWES  TO  THE  KN OWES. 

CA’  THE  EWES  TO  THE  KNOWES. 

The  verses  within  brackets  are  old,  with  only  a  few 
touches  of  improvement  by  Burns. 

A’  the  ewes  to  the  knowes, 

^  Ca’  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca’  them  where  the  burnie  rows, 

My  bonny  dearie. 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water-side, 

There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad* 

He  rowed  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 

And  he  ca’d  me  his  dearie. 

Will  ye  gang  down  the  water-side, 

And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide  0 
Beneath  the  hazel  spreading  wide,  • 

The  moon  it  shines  fu’  elearly. 

[Ye  sail  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 

Cauf  leather  slioon  upon  your  feet, 

And  in  my  arms  ye  ’se  lie  and  sleep, 

And  ye  sail  be  my  dearie. 

If  ye  but  stand  to  what  ye ’ve  said, 

I  ’se  gang  wi’  you,  my  shepherd  lad, 

And  ye  may  row  me  in  your  plaid, 

And  I  sail  be  your  dearie.] 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea, 

While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie, 


YOUNG  JOCKEY. 


643 

Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin’  my  ee, 

Ye  sail  be  my  dearie. 

— ♦ — 


FOR  A’  THAT,  AND  A’  THAT. 


rpHOUGH  women’s  minds,  like  winter  winds, 
May  shift  and  turn,  and  a’  that ; 

The  noblest  breast  adores  them  maist, 

A  consequence  I  draw  that. 


For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

And  twice  as  mickle ’s  a’  that, 
The  bonny  lass  that  I  lo’e  best, 
Shall  be  my  ain  for  a’  that,  etc. 


— « — 

YOUNG  JOCKEY. 

Tune  —  Young  Jockey. 

“  fhe  whole  of  [this  song],  excepting  three  or  four 
lines,  is  the  production  of  Burns.”  —  Stenhousk. 

Y OFFNG  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad 
In  a’  our  town  or  here  awa’  : 

Fu’  blithe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud, 

Fu’  lightly  danced  he  in  the  ha’, 
lie  roosed  my  een,  sae  bonny  blue, 

He  roosed  my  waist,  sae  genty  sma’ ; 

And  aye  my  heart  came  to  my  mou’, 

When  ne’er  a  body  heard  or  saw. 


- - — - - 

644  WHA  IS  Til  AT  AT  MY  BOWER  DOOR ? 

My  Jockey  tolls  upon  the  plain, 

Through  wind  and  weet,  through  frost  and  snaw, 

And  o’er  the  lea  I  leuk  fu’  fain, 

When  Jockey’s  owsen  hameward  ca\ 

And  aye  the  night  comes  round  again, 

When  in  his  arms  he  takes  me  a’ ; 

And  aye  he  vows  he  ’ll  be  my  ain, 

As  lane’s  he  has  a  breath  to  draw. 

O 

-  ♦  - 

WHA  IS  THAT  AT  MY  BOWER  DOOR? 

Tune  —  Lass ,  an’  I  come  near  thee. 

HA  is  that  at  my  bower  door? 

"  *  O  wha  is  it  but  Findlay : 

Then  gae  your  gate,  ye ’s  nae  be  here  1 
Indeed  maun  I,  quo’  Findlay. 

What  mak  ye,  sae  like  a  thief? 

O  come  and  see,  quo’  Findlay : 

Before  the  morn  ye  ’ll  work  mischief; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay. 

Gif  I  rise  and  let  you  in, 

Let  me  in,  quo’  Findlay : 

Ye  ’ll  keep  me  waukin’  wi’  your  din  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay. 

In  my  bower  if  ye  should  stay, 

Let  me  stay,  quo’  Findlay  : 

I  fear  ye  ’ll  bide  till  break  o’  day  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay. 


THE  TIT  HER  MORN.  645 

Here  this  night  if  ye  remain, 

I  ’ll  remain,  quo’  Findlay : 

I  dread  ye  ’ll  learn  the  gate  again  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay. 

What  may  pass  within  this  bower, 

Let  it  pass,  quo’  Findlay : 

Ye  maun  conceal  till  your  last  hour  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay. 


THE  TITHER  MORN. 


To  a  Highland  Air. 


HPHE  tither  morn,  when  I  forlorn 


Aneath  an  aik  sat  moaning, 


I  did  na  trow,  I ’d  see  my  jo, 

Beside  me,  ’gain  the  gloaming. 
But  he  sae  trig,  lap  o’er  the  rig, 

And  dawtingly  did  cheer  me, 
When  I,  what-reek,  did  least  expce’, 
To  see  my  lad  so  near  me. 


His  bonnet  he,  a  thought  ajee, 

Cocked  sprush  when  first  he  clasped  me ; 
And  I,  I  wat,  wi’  fainness  grat, 

While  in  his  grips  be  pressed  me. 

Deil  tak  the  war !  I  late  and  air, 

Ilae  wished,  since  Jock  departed  ; 

But  now  as  glad  I ’m  wi’  my  lad, 

As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 


646  AS  I  IFylS  A-W  AN  BERING. 

Fu’  aft  at  e’en  wi’  dancing  keen, 

When  a’  were  blithe  and  merry, 

I  cared  na  by,  sae  sad  was  I, 

In  absence  o’  my  dearie. 

But,  praise  be  blest,  my  mind ’s  at  rest, 

I ’m  happy  wi’  my  Johnny  : 

At  kirk  and  fair,  I  ’se  aye  be  there, 

And  be  as  canty ’s  ony. 

— ♦ — 

AS  I  WAS  A-WANDERING. 

Tuxe  —  Rinn  Meuilial  mo  Mkealladh. 

AS  I  was  a-wandering  ae  midsummer  e’enin’, 
The  pipers  and  youngsters  were  making  their 
game, 

Amung  them  I  spied  my  faithless  fause  lover, 
Which  bled  a’  the  wounds  o’  my  dolour  again. 
Weel,  since  he  has  left  me,  may  pleasure  gae 
wi’  him, 

I  may  be  distressed,  but  I  winna  complain  ; 
I  flatter  my  fancy  I  may  get  anither, 

My  heart  it  shall  never  be  broken  for  ane. 

I  could n a  get  sleeping  till  dawin  for  greetin’, 

The  teare  trickled  down  like  the  hail  and  the 
rain ; 

Had  I  na  got  greetin’,  my  heart  wad  ha’  broken, 
For  oh  !  love  forsaken ’s  a  tormenting  pain. 

Although  he  has  left  me  for  greed  o’  the  siller, 

I  dinna  envy  him  the  gains  he  can  win ; 


THE  WEARY  FUND  0’  TOW. 

I  rather  wad  bear  a’  the  lade  o’  my  sorrow 
Than  ever  hae  acted  sae  faithless  to  him. 

— • — 

THE  WEARY  PUND  O’  TOW. 

Tune —  The  Weary  Pund  o'  Tow. 

rpiIE  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund. 

‘  The  weary  pund  ov  tow  ; 

I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  her  tow. 

I  bought  my  wife  a  stane  o’  lint 
As  guid  as  e’er  did  grow ; 

And  a’  that  she  has  made  o’  that, 

Is  ae  poor  pund  o’  tow. 

There  sat  a  bottle  in  a  bole, 

Beyont  the  ingle  lowe, 

And  aye  she  took  the  titlier  souk. 

To  drouk  the  stowrie  tow. 

Quoth  I,  for  shame,  ye  dirty  dame, 

Gae  spin  your  tap  o’  tow  ! 

She  took  the  rock,  and  wi’  a  knock 
She  brak  it  o’er  my  pow. 

At  last  her  feet  —  I  san^  to  see ’t  — ■ 
Gaed  foremost  o’er  the  knowe  ; 

And  or  I  wad  anither  jad, 

I  ’ll  wallop  in  a  tow. 


647 


648  JT  IS  NA,  JEAN ,  THY  BONNY  FACE. 


GANE  IS  THE  DAY. 

Tune  —  Guidwife ,  count  the  Lawin. 

ANE  is  the  day,  and  mirk’s  the  night, 
^  But  we  ’ll  ne’er  stray  for  fau’t  o’  light, 
For  ale  and  brandy’s  stars  and  moon, 

And  bluid-red  wine ’s  the  rising  sun. 

Then  guidwife,  count  the  lawin, 

The  lawin,  the  lawin ; 

Then  guidwife,  count  the  lawin, 

And  brino;  a  cog-ine  mair. 

o  oo 


There  s  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen, 
And  simple  folk  maun  fight  and  fen  ; 
But  here  we  ’re  a’  in  ae  accord, 

For  ilka  man  that’s  drunk’s  a  lord. 


My  coggie  is  a  haly  pool, 

That  heals  the  wounds  o’  care  and  dool ; 
And  pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout, 

An’  ye  drink  but  deep  ye’ll  find  him  out. 

— ♦ — 

IT  IS  NA,  JEAN,  THY  BONNY  FACE. 

Tune  —  The  Maid's  Complaint. 

|  T  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonny  face 
Nor  shape  that  I  admire, 
Although  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace 
Might  weel  awake  desire. 
Something,  in  ilka  part  o’  thee, 

To  praise,  to  love,  I  find  ; 


MY  COLLIER  LADDIE. 


649 


Bat.  dear  as  is  thy  form  to  me, 

Still  dearer  is  thy  mind. 

Nae  mair  ungenerous  wish  I  hae, 

Nor  stronger  in  my  breast, 

Than  if  I  canna  mak  thee  sae, 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest. 

Content  am  I,  if  Heaven  shall  give 
But  happiness  to  thee  : 

And  as  wi’  thee  I ’d  wish  to  live, 

F or  thee  I ’d  bear  to  die. 

— ♦ — 

MY  COLLIER  LADDIE. 

Tune  —  The  Collier  Laddie. 

\\T HERE  live  ye,  my  bonny  lass  ? 

*  ~  And  tell  me  what  they  ca’  ye  ;  ” 
“My  name,”  she  says,  “is  Mistress  Jean, 
And  I  follow  the  Collier  Laddie.” 

“  See  you  not  yon  hills  and  dales, 

The  sun  shines  on  sae  brawlie  ? 

They  a’  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be  thine, 
Gin  ye  ’ll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

“  Ye  shall  gang  in  gay  attire, 

Weel  buskit  up  sae  gaudy ; 

And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand, 

Gin  ye  ’ll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie.” 

“  Though  ye  had  a’  the  sun  shines  on, 

And  the  earth  conceals  sae  lowly ; 


650  YE  JACOBITES  BY  NAME. 

I  wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a’, 

And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie. 

“  I  can  win  my  five  pennies  in  a  day, 

And  spen ’t  at  night  fu’  brawlie ; 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  Collier’s  neuk, 

And  lie  down  wi’  my  Collier  Laddie. 

“  Luve  for  luve  is  the  bargain  for  me, 

Though  the  wee  cot-liouse  should  liaud  me  ; 

And  the  world  before  me  to  win  my  bread, 

And  fair  fa’  my  Collier  Laddie.” 

— • — 

YE  JACOBITES  BY  NAME. 

Tune  —  Ye  Jacobites  by  Name. 

"YTE  Jacobites  by  name,  give  an  ear,  give  an  ear 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  give  an  ear ; 

Ye  Jacobites  by  name, 

Your  fautes  I  will  proclaim, 

Your  doctrines  I  maun  blame  — 

You  shall  hear. 

What  is  right  and  what  is  wrang,  by  the  law,  by 
the  law  ? 

What  is  right  and  what  is  wrang  by  the  law  V 
What  is  right  and  what  is  wrang  ? 

O  O 

A  short  sword  and  a  lang,  • 

A  weak  arm,  and  a  strang 

7  o 

For  to  draw. 


LADY  MARY  ANN.  651 

Wliat  makes  heroic  strife,  famed  afar,  famed  afar? 
What  makes  heroic  strife  famed  afar  ? 

What  makes  heroic  strife  ? 

To  whet  th’  assassin’s  knife, 

Or  hunt  a  parent’s  life, 

Wi’  bluidie  war. 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone,  in  the  state,  in  tlm 
state ; 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone  in  the  state  ; 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone, 

Adore  the  rising  sun, 

And  leave  a  man  undone 
To  his  fate. 

— 

LADY  MARY  ANN. 

Tune  —  Craigton ’s  Growing. 

Oh’  Lady  Mary  Ann  looked  o’er  the  castle  wa’ ; 
^  She  saw  three  bonny  boys  playing  at  the  ba’ ; 
The  youngest  he  was  the  flower  amang  them  a’  — 
My  bonny  laddie ’s  young,  but  he ’s  growin’  yet. 

O  father  !  O  father  !  an’  ye  think  it  fit, 

We  ’ll  send  him  a  year  to  the  college  yet : 

We  ’ll  sew  a  green  ribbon  round  about  his  hat, 
And  that  will  let  them  ken  he ’s  to  marry  yet. 

Lady  Mary  Ann  was  a  flower  i’  the  dew ; 

Sweet  was  its  smell,  and  bonny  was  its  hue, 

And  the  langer  it  blossomed  the  sweeter  it  grew  — 
For  the  lily  in  the  bud  will  be  bonnier  yet. 


652  KEN  MURK'S  ON  AND  A  WA\ 

Young  Charlie  Cochrane  was  the  sprout  of  an  aik, 
Bonny  and  bloomin’,  and  straught  was  its  make  ; 
The  sun  took  delight  to  shine  for  its  sake, 

And  it  will  be  the  brag  o’  the  forest  yet. 

The  simmer  is  gane  when  the  leaves  they  were  green, 
And  the  days  are  awa’  that  we  hae  seen ; 

But  far  better  days  I  trust  will  come  again, 

For  my  bonny  laddie ’s  young,  but  he ’s  growin’ 
yet. 

— ♦ — 

KENMURE’S  ON  AND  AWA’. 

Tune  —  O  Kenrnure  's  on  and  awa',  Willie. 

A  KENMURE’S  on  and  awa’,  Willie  ! 

O  Kenmure ’s  on  and  awa’ ! 

And  Kenrnure’s  lord ’s  the  bravest  lord 
That  ever  Galloway  saw. 

Success  to  Kenrnure’s  band,  Willie ! 

Success  to  Kenrnure’s  band  ! 

There ’s  no  a  heart  that  fears  a  Whig 
That  rides  by  Kenrnure’s  hand. 

Here’s  Kenrnure’s  health  in  Avine,  Willie! 

Here’s  Kenrnure’s  health  in  Avine! 

There  ne’er  Avas  a  coward  o’  Kenrnure’s  blude, 
Nor  yet  o’  Gordon’s  line. 

()  Kenrnure’s  lads  are  men,  Willie  ! 

O  Kenrnure’s  lads  are  men  ! 

Their  hearts  and  SAvords  are  metal  true, 

And  that  their  faes  shall  ken. 


SUCH  A  PARCEL  OF  ROGUES.  653 

They  ’ll  live  or  die  wi’  fame,  Willie  ! 

They  ’ll  live  or  die  wi’  fame  ! 

But  soon,  wi’  sounding  victorie, 

May  Kentnure’s  lord  come  hame  ! 

Here ’s  him  that ’s  far  awa’,  Willie  ! 

Here ’s  him  that ’s  far  awa’ ! 

And  here ’s  the  flower  that  I  love  best  — 

The  rose  that ’s  like  the  snaw  ! 


SUCH  A  PARCEL  OF  ROGUES  IN  A  NATION. 
Tune  — A  Parcel  of  Rogues  in  a  Nation. 


ARE W EEL  to  a’  our  Scottish  fame, 
Fareweel  our  ancient  glory, 

Fareweel  even  to  the  Scottish  name, 

Sae  famed  in  martial  story. 

Now  Sark  rins  o’er  the  Solway  sands, 

And  Tweed  rins  to  the  ocean, 

To  mark  where  England’s  province  stands  — 
Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation. 


What  force  or  guile  could  not  subdue 
Through  many  warlike  ages, 

Is  wrought  now  by  a  coward  few, 

For  hireling  traitors’  wages. 

The  English  steel  we  could  disdain, 
Secure  in  valour’s  station  ; 

But  English  gold  has  been  our  bane  — 
Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation. 

vol.  ii.  20 


/ 


654  THE  CARLES  OF  D  YSAR 1. 

O  would,  ere  I  had  seen  the  day 
That  treason  thus  could  fell  us, 

My  auld  gray  head  had  lien  in  clay, 

Wi’  Bruce  and  loyal  Wallace  ! 

But  pith  and  power,  till  my  last  hour, 

I  ’ll  mak  this  declaration  : 

We  ’re  bought  and  sold  for  English  gold  — 
Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation. 

— • — 

THE  CARLES  OF  DYSART. 

Tune —  Hey,  ca ’  through. 

TTP  wi’  the  carles  o’  Dysart, 

^  And  the  lads  o’  Buckhaven, 

And  the  kimmers  o’  Largo, 

And  the  lasses  o’  Leven. 

Hey,  ca’  through,  ca’  through, 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado ; 

Hey,  ca’  through,  ca’  through, 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado. 

We  hae  tales  to  tell, 

And  we  hae  sangs  to  sing ; 

We  hae  pennies  to  spend, 

And  we  hae  pints  to  bring. 

We  ’ll  live  a’  our  days, 

And  them  that  come  behin’, 

Let  them  do  the  like, 

And  spend  the  gear  they  win. 


THE  CARLE  OF  KELL  YB  URN  BRAES.  655 

THE  CARLE  OF  KELLY  BURN  BRAES. 

Tune  —  Kellyburn  Braes. 

^HERE  lived  a  carle  on  Kellyburn  Braes, 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 
And  he  had  a  wife  was  the  plague  o’  his  days : 
And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

Ac  day  as  the  carle  gaed  up  the  lang  glen, 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

He  met  wi’  the  devil ;  says,  “  How  do  you  fen  ?  ” 
And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

“  I ’ve  got  a  bad  wife,  sir ;  that ’s  a’  my  complaint ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

For,  saving  your  presence,  to  her  ye’re  a  saint: 
And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime.” 

“  It ’s  neither  your  stot  nor  your  staig  I  shall  crave, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

But  gie  me  your  wife,  man,  for  her  I  must  have, 
And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime.” 

“  O  welcome,  most  kindly,”  the  blithe  carle  said, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

“  But  if  ye  can  match  her,  ye  ’re  waur  than  ye  ’re 
ca’d :  . 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime.” 


656  TIIE  CARLE  OF  KELLY  BURN  BRAES. 

The  devil  has  got  the  auld  wife  on  his  back ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 
And,  like  a  poor  pedler,  he ’s  carried  his  pack ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

lie ’s  carried  her  hame  to  his  ain  hallan-door ; 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

Syne  bade  her  gae  in,  for  a  b - and  a - : 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

Then  straight  he  makes  fifty,  the  pick  o’  his  band. 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 
Turn  out  on  her  guard  in  the  clap  of  a  hand : 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

The  carline  gaed  through  them  like  ony  wud  bear, 
’  (Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 
Whae’er  she  gat  hands  on  cam  near  her  nae 
mair : 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

A  reekit  wee  devil  looks  over  the  wa’ ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

“  Oh,  help,  master,  help,  or  she  ’ll  ruin  us  a’ :  ” 
And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

The  devil  he  swore  by  the  edge  o’  his  knife, 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 


i 


JOCKY  FOU  AND  JENNY  FAIN.  657 

He  pitied  tlie  man  that  was  tied  to  a  wife : 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

The  devil  he  swore  by  the  kirk  and  the  bell, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

He  was  not  in  wedlock,  thank  Heaven,  but  in 
hell : 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

Then  Satan  has  travelled  again  wi’  his  pack ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 
And  to  her  auld  husband  he ’s  carried  her  back  : 
And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

“  I  hae  been  a  devil  the  feck  o’  my  life, 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi’  thyme,) 

Bat  ne’er  was  in  hell  till  I  met  wi’  a  wife :  ” 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withered,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

— ♦ — 

JOCKY  FOU  AND  JENNY  FAIN. 

T  ET  love  sparkle  in  her  ee, 

Let  her  lo’e  nae  man  but  me ; 

That ’s  the  tocher  guid  I  prize, 

There  the  lover’s  treasure  lies. 


058  COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 


THE  SLAVE’S  LAMENT. 

TT  was  in  sweet  Senegal  that  my  foes  did  me 
enthral, 

For  the  lands  of  Virginia,  O  ; 

Torn  from  that  lovely  shore,  and  must  never  see  it 
more, 

And  alas  I  am  weary,  weary,  O  ! 

All  on  that  charming  coast  is  no  bitter  snow  or 

O 

frost, 

Like  the  lands  of  Virginia,  O  ; 

There  streams  for  ever  flow,  and  there  flowers  for 
ever  blow, 

And  alas  I  am  weary,  weary,  O ! 

The  burden  I  must  bear,  while  the  cruel  scourge  1 
fear, 

In  the  lands  of  Virginia,  O  ; 

And  I  think  on  friends  most  dear,  with  the  bitter, 
bitter  tear, 

And  alas  I  am  weary,  weary,  O  ! 

— « — 

COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

Tune —  Coming  through  the  Rye. 

/DOMING  through  the  rye,  poor  body, 

^  Coming  through  the  rye, 

She  draiglet  a’  her  petticoatie, 

Coming  through  the  rye. 


YOUNG  JAMIE. 


Jenny ’s  a’  wat,  poor  body, 


Jenny ’s  seldom  dry  ; 

She  draiglet  a’  her  petticoatie, 
Coming  through  the  rye. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Coming  through  the  rye, 
u:n  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 

bun  a  body  meet  a  body 
Coming  through  the  glen, 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  the  world  ken  ? 


♦ 


VoONG  JAMIE,  PRIDE  OF  A’  THE  PLAIN. 


Tune  —  The  Carlin  o'1  the  Glen. 


OUNG  Jamie,  pride  of  a*  the  plain, 


Sae  gallant  and  sae  gay  a  swain, 
Through  a’  our  lasses  he  did  rove, 

And  reigned  resistless  king  of  love. 

But  now  wi’  sighs  and  starting  tears, 

He  strays  amang  the  woods  and  briers ; 
Or  in  the  glens  and  roeky  caves 
He  sad  complaining  dowie  raves  : 

“  I  wha  sac  late  did  range  and  rove, 
And  changed  with  every  moon  my  love, 
I  little  thought  the  time  was  near, 
Repentance  I  should  buy  sae  dear. 


THE  LASS'  OF  ECCLEFECHAN. 


The  slighted  maids  my  torment  see, 
And  laugh  at  a’  the  pangs  I  dree ; 
While  she,  my  cruel,  scornfu’  fair, 
Forbids  me  e’er  to  see  her  mair !  ” 


THE  LASS  OF  ECCLEFECHAN 
Tune  —  Jacky  Latin. 

AT  ye  me,  0  gat  ye  me, 

^  O  gat  ye  me  wi’  naething  ? 

Rock  and  reel,  and  spinnin’-wheel, 

A  mickle  quarter  basin. 

Bye  attour,  my  gutcher  has 

A  heigh  house  and  a  laigli  ane, 

A’  forbye  my  bonny  sel’, 

The  toss  of  Ecclefeclian. 

O  haud  your  tongue  now,  Luckie  Lang 
O  haud  your  tongue  and  jauner  ; 

T  held  the  gate  till  you  I  met, 

Syne  I  began  to  wander : 

I  tint  my  whistle  and  my  sang, 

I  tint  my  peace  and  pleasure ; 

But  your  green  graff,  now,  Luckie  Lain 
Wad  airt  me  to  my  treasure. 


WHEN  WINTER'S  WIND.  661 


THE  CARDIN’  0’  ’T. 

Tune  —  Salt-Jish  and  Dumplings. 

T  COFT  a  stane  o’  liaslock  woo’, 

To  make  a  coat  to  Johnny  o’ ’t ; 

For  Johnny  is  my  only  jo, 

I  lo’e.  him  best  of  ony  yet. 

The  cardin’  o’ ’t,  the  spinnin’  o’ ’t, 

The  Avarpin’  o’ ’t,  the  winnin’  o’ ’t  — 
When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a  groat, 

The  tailor  staw  the  lynin’  o’ ’t ! 

For  though  his  locks  be  lyart  gray,  ,g 
And  though  his  brow  be  beld  aboon, 

Yet  I  hae  seen  him  on  a  day, 

The  pride  of  a’  the  parishen. 

— « — - 

THE  LASS  THAT  MADE  THE  BED  TO  ME. 

Tune —  The  Peacock. 

TT7"HEN  winter’s  wind  was  blawing  cauld, 
*  ^  As  to  the  north  I  bent  my  way, 

The  mirksome  night  did  me  enfauld, 

I  knew  na  where  to  lodge  till  day. 

A  charming  girl  I  chanced  to  meet, 

Just  in  the  middle  o’  my  care, 

And  kindly  she  did  me  invite 

Iler  father’s  humble  cot  to  share. 


662  THE  HIGHLAND  LADDIE 

Her  hair  was  like  the  gowd  sae  fine, 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivorie, 

Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

Her  bosom  was  the  drifted  snaw. 

Her  limbs  like  marble  fair  to  see ; 

A  finer  form  nane  ever  saw 

Than  hers  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

She  made  the  bed  baitli  lang  and  braid, 

Wi’  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it  down, 

She  bade  “  Guid-night,”  and  smiling  said, 

“  I  hope  ye  ’ll  sleep  baith  saft  and  soun’.” 

Upon  the  morrow,  when  I  raise, 

I  thanked  her  for  her  courtesie  ; 

A  blush  cam  o’er  the  comely  face 
Of  her  that  made  the  bed  for  me. 

I  clasped  her  waist  and  kissed  her  syne ; 
The  tear  stude  twinkling  in  her  ee ; 

“  O  dearest  maid,  gin  ye  ’ll  be  mine, 

Ye  aye  sail  mak  the  bed  to  me.” 


THE  HIGHLAND  LADDIE. 

Tune  —  If  thou  ''It  play  me  fair  play. 

rT'HE  bonniest  lad  that  e’er  I  saw, 
Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie, 
Wore  a  plaid,  and  was  fu’  braw, 


SAF  FAR  A  WA\ 

Bonny  Highland  laddie. 

On  his  head  a  bonnet  blue,  . 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie, 

His  royal  heart  was  firm  and  true, 
Bonny  Highland  laddie. 

Trumpets  sound,  and  cannons  roar, 
Bonny  lassie,  Lowland  lassie, 

And  a’  the  hills  wi’  echoes  roar, 

Bonny  Lowland  lassie. 

Glory,  honour,  now  invite, 

Bonny  lassie,  Lowland  lassie, 

For  freedom  and  my  king  to  fight, 
Bonny  Lowland  lassie. 

The  sun  a  backward  course  shall  take, 
Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie, 

Ere  aught  thy  manly  courage  shake, 
Bonny  Highland  laddie. 

Go  !  for  yourself  procure  renown, 
Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie, 

And  for  your  lawful  king  his  crown, 
Bonny  Highland  laddie. 

— « — 

SAE  FAR  AWA’. 

Tune  —  Dalkeith  Maiden  Bridge. 

SAD  and  heavy  should  I  part, 
^  But  for  her  sake  sae  far  awa’, 
Unknowing  what  my  way  may  thwart. 
My  native  land  sae  far  awa'. 


663 


GG4  I'LL  AYE  CA ’  IN  BY  YON  TOWN . 

Thou  that  of  a’  things  Maker  art, 

That  formed  this  Fair  sac  far  awa’, 

Gie  body  strength,  and  I  ’ll  ne’er  start 
At  this  my  way  sae  far  awa’. 

How  true  is  love  to  pure  desert, 

So  love  to  her  sae  far  awa’, 

And  nought  can  heal  my  bosom’s  smart, 
While,  oh,  she  is  sae  far  awa’. 

Nane  other  love,  nae  other  dart, 

1  feel,  but  hers  sae  far  awa’, 

But  fairer  never  touched  a  heart, 

Than  hers  the  Fair,  sae  far  awa’. 

— • — 

r 

I’LL  AYE  CA’  IN  BY  YON  TOWN. 

T  ’LL  aye  ca’  in  by  yon  town, 

A  And  by  yon  garden  green  again  ; 

1  ’ll  aye  ca’  in  by  yon  town, 

And  see  my  bonny  Jean  again. 

There ’s  nane  sail  ken,  there ’s  nane  sail  guess, 
What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again, 

But  she  my  fairest  faithfu’  lass, 

And  stowlins  we  sail  meet  again. 

She  ’ll  wander  by  the  aiken  tree, 

When  trystin’  time  draws  near  again, 

And  when  her  lovely  form  T  see, 

O  liaith  !  she ’s  doubly  dear  again. 


IT  TFAS  A'  FOR  OUR  RIGHTFU  KING .  6G5 


BANNOCKS  0’  BARLEY. 

Tune  —  The  Killogie. 

T>ANNOCKS  o’  bear-meal, 
Bannocks  o’  barley  ; 
Here ’s  to  the  Highland  man’s 
Bannocks  o’  barley  ! 

Wha  in  a  brnlzie 

Will  first  cry  a  parley  ? 
Never  the  lads  wi’ 

The  bannocks  o’  barley  ! 


Bannocks  o’  bear-meal, 
Bannocks  o’  barley ; 

Here ’s  to  the  lads  wi’ 

The  bannocks  o’  barley  ! 
Wha  in  his  wae-days 

Were  loyal  to  Charlie  ?  — 
Wha  but  the  lads  wi’ 

The  bannocks  o’  barley  ? 


— ♦ — 

IT  WAS  A’  FOR  OUR  RIGHTFU’  KING. 

Tune  —  It  was  a?  for  our  rightfu'1  King. 

TT  was  a’  for  our  rightfu’  king 
^  We  left  fair  Scotland’s  strand  ; 

It  was  a’  for  our  rightfu’  king 
We  e’er  saw  Irish  land, 

My  dear, 

We  e’er  saw  Irish  land. 


666  THE  HIGHLAND  WIDOWS  LAMENT. 

Now  a’  is  done  that  men  can  do, 

And  a’  is  done  in  vain  ; 

My  love  and  native  land  farewell, 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main, 

My  dear, 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 

lie  turned  him  right  and  round  about 
Upon  the  Irish  shore, 

And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

With  adieu  for  evermore, 

My  dear, 

With  adieu  for  evermore. 

The  sodger  from  the  wars  returns, 

The  sailor  frae  the  main, 

But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love, 

Never  to  meet  again, 

My  dear, 

Never  to  meet  again. 

When  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  come, 
And  a’  folk  bound  to  sleep, 

I  think  on  him  that ’s  far  awa’, 

The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep, 

My  dear, 

The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 

— « — 

THE  HIGHLAND  WIDOW’S  LAMENT. 

9 

/"ATI,  I  am  come  to  the  low  countrie, 
Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie  ! 


THE  HIGHLAND  WIDOW'S  I  AMENT 

Without  a  penny  in  my  purse, 

To  buy  a  meal  to  me. 

It  was  na  sae  in  the  Highland  hills, 
Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

Nae  woman  in  the  country  wide 
Sae  happy  was  as  me. 

For  then  I  had  a  score  o’  kye, 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie  ! 

Feeding  on  yon  hills  so  high, 

And  giving  milk  to  me. 

And  there  I  had  threescore  o’  yowes, 
Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie  ! 

Skipping  on  yon  bonny  knowes, 

And  casting  woo’  to  me. 

I  was  the  happiest  of  the  clan, 

Sair,  sair  may  T  repine  ; 

For  Donald  was  the  brawest  lad, 

And  Donald  he  was  mine. 

Till  Charlie  Stewart  cam  at  last, 

Sae  far  to  set  us  free  ; 

My  Donald’s  arm  was  wanted  then, 

For  Scotland  and  for  me. 

Their  waefu’  fate  what  need  I  tell  ? 
Right  to  the  wrang  did  yield  : 

My  Donald  and  his  country  fell 
Upon  Culloden’s  field. 


6G7 


668  WEE  WILLIE  GRAY. 

Oh,  I  am  come  to  tlie  low  countrie, 
Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie  ! 

Nae  woman  in  tlie  world  wide 
Sae  wretched  now  as  me. 


— ♦ — 

0  STEER  HER  UP. 

Tune  —  O  steer  her  up ,  and  hand  her  gaun. 

/X  STEER  her  up,  and  haud  her  gaun, 
Her  mother ’s  at  the  mill,  jo  ; 

And  gin  she  winna  take  a  man, 

E’en  let  her  take  her  will,  jo. 

First  shore  her  wi’  a  kindly  kiss, 

And  ca’  another  gill,  jo  ; 

And  gin  she  take  the  thing  amiss, 

E’en  let  her  flyte  her  fill,  jo. 


O  steer  her  up,  and  be  na  blate, 

And  gin  she  take  it  ill,  jo, 

Then  lea’e  the  lassie  till  her  fate, 

And  time  nae  langer  spill,  jo. 
Ne’er  break  your  heart  for  ae  rebute, 
But  think  upon  it  still,  jo  ; 

Then  gin  the  lassie  winna  do ’t, 

Ye  ’ll  fin’  anither  will,  jo. 

— ♦ — 


WEE  WILLIE  GRAY. 


X^^EE  Willie  Gray,  and  his  leather  wallet, 

Peel  a  willow-wand,  to  be  him  boots  and 
jacket ; 


O  AYE  MY  WIFE  SHE  DANG  ME.  GG9 

The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him  trouse  and 
doublet, 

The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him  trouse,  and 
doublet. 

Wee  Willie  Gray,  and  his  leather  wallet, 

Twice  a  lilie  flower  will  be  him  sark  and  cravat ; 

Feathers  of  a  file  wad  feather  up  his  bonnet, 

Feathers  of  a  flie  wad  feather  up  his  bonnet. 

— ♦ — 

0  AYE  MY  WIFE  SHE  DANG  ME. 

Tune  —  My  Wife  she  dang  me. 

AYE  my  wife  she  dang  me, 

^  And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me, 

If  ye  gie  a  woman  a’  her  will, 

Quid  faith,  she  ’ll  soon  o’ergang  ye. 

On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent, 

And  fool  1  was  I  married ; 

But  never  honest  man’s  intent 
As  cursedly  miscarried. 

Some  sa’r  o’  comfort  still  at  last, 

When  a’  my  days  are  done,  man ; 

My  pains  o’  hell  on  earth  are  past, 

I ’m  sure  o’  bliss  aboon,  man. 

0  aye  my  wife  she  dang  me, 

And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me, 

If  ye  gie  a  woman  a’  her  will, 

Guid  faith,  she  ’ll  soon  o’ergang  ye. 

VOL.  II.  21 


670  ROBIN  SHURE  IN  HAIRS T. 


0  GUID  ALE  COMES. 


/Y  GUID  ale  comes,  and  guid  ale  goes, 
^  Guid  ale  gars  me  sell  my  hose, 

Sell  my  hose  and  pawn  my  shoon  ; 

Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 


I  had  sax  owsen  in  a  pleugh, 
They  drew  a’  weel  eneugh, 

I  selt  them  a’  just  ane  by  ane ; 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 


ROBIN  SHORE  IN  HAIRST. 
CHORUS. 

Y>  OBIN  shure  in  hairst, 

I  shure  wi’  him  ; 

Fient  a  heuk  had  I, 

Yet  I  stack  by  him. 

I  gaed  up  to  Dunse, 

To  warp  a  wab  o’  plaiden  ; 
At  his  daddie’s  yett, 

Wha  met  me  but  Robin  ? 

Was  na  Robin  bauld, 

Though  I  was  a  cotter, 
Flayed  me  sic  a  trick, 

And  me  the  eller’s  doehter  r 


THERE  WAS  A  BONNY  LASS. 

Robin  promised  me 
A’  my  winter  vittle  ; 

Fient  hae ’t  he  had  but  three 
Goose  feathers  and  a  whittle. 


♦ 


SWEETEST  MAY. 

O  WEETEST  May,  let  love  inspire  thee, 
^  Take  a  heart  which  he  desires  thee  ; 
As  thy  constant  slave  regard  it, 

For  its  faith  and  truth  reward  it. 

Proof  o’  shot  to  birth  or  money, 

Not  the  wealthy  but  the  bonny ; 

Not  high-born,  but  noble-minded, 

In  love’s  silken  band  can  bind  it. 


♦ 


THERE  WAS  A  BONNY  LASS 
HERE  was  a  bonny  lass,  and  a  bonny,  bonny 


lass, 

And  she  lo’ed  her  bonny  laddie  dear, 

Till  war’s  loud  alarms  tore  her  laddie  frae  her 
arms, 

Wi’  monie  a  sigh  and  a  tear. 

Over  sea,  over  shore,  where  the  cannons  loudly  roar, 
He  still  was  a  stranger  to  fear ; 

And  nought  could  him  quail,  or  his  bosom  assail, 
But  the  bonny  lass  he  lo’ed  sae  dear. 


r>72 


CROWD  IE. 


CROWDIE. 


/  \  THAT  I  had  ne’er  been  married, 
v  I  wad  never  had  nae  care ; 

Now  I ’ve  gotten  wife  and  bairns, 

And  they  cry  crowdie  evermair. 

Ance  crowdie,  twice  crowdie, 
Three  times  crowdie  in  a  day  ; 
Gin  ye  crowdie  ony  mair, 

Ye  ’ll  crowdie  a’  my  meal  away. 


Waefu’  want  and  hunger  fley  me, 
Glowrin’  by  the  hallan  en’ ; 

Sair  I  fecht  them  at  the  door, 

But  aye  I ’m  eerie  they  come  ben. 


( 


GLOSSARY. 

— ♦ — 


all. 

Aback .  away,  aloof. 

Abeigk ,  off,  aloof. 

Ablins,  perhaps,  possibly. 
Ablins  thrang ,  perhaps  busy. 
Ablins  waur't ,  perhaps  worsted, 
^lboon,  above. 

Aboon  the  lift ,  above  the  sky. 
Abread,  abroad  in  sight. 

Abreed ,  in  breadth. 

muck  water, 
jdrfo,  to  do. 

Ae,  one. 

Aff-han\  off-hand. 

Aff-loqf, ,  off-hand. 

Aft,  oft. 

Aften ,  often. 

A-gley,  awry,  wrong. 

Aiblins,  perhaps. 

Aik ,  an  oak. 

Ain,  own. 

Air ,  early,  soon. 

A  ire-penny,  earnest-money. 
^Lfrn,  iron. 

yi/Vt,  quarter,  direct,  direction. 
Airted ,  directed. 

.4 /to,  an  oath. 

.d/ts,  oats. 

Aiver,  a  cart-horse. 

Aizle ,  a  cinder. 

A-jee,  ajar. 

Alane ,  alone. 

Akwart,  awkward. 

Amaist ,  ’ maist ,  almost. 

Ainang,  among. 

.4/ice,  once, 
dne,  one,  an. 


.dnent,  about. 

.dn  ’5,  and  am. 

Anither ,  another. 

Arle-penny ,  earnest-bait. 

Asc ,  ashes. 

Asklent ,  askant. 

^dspar,  astride. 

.d steer,  abroad,  stirring. 

Athort,  athwart. 

Atween ,  between. 

.dwgA*,  possession. 

Avid,  old. 

.dnto  birkie,  old  boy. 
Auld-farrant,  sagacious,  sen¬ 
sible. 

-drrto  tong  syne,  days  of  other 
years. 

Aumis,  alms. 

Aumis-dish,  alms-dish,  or  plate 
Ava,  at  all. 

Aica\  away. 

Axofu' ,  awful. 

Awn ,  the  beard  of  barley. 
Awnie,  bearded. 

Ayont ,  beyond. 

Ba\  ball. 

Backets ,  ash  boards. 

Backlins  cornin' ,  coming  back, 
returning. 

Bade,  baide,  endured,  desired. 
Baggie,  the  beliy. 

Baide,  resided. 

Bainie,  bony. 

Bairn ,  a  child. 

Bairn-time ,  children. 

Baith,  both. 


G74  CL  OSSAR  1\ 

i 

Babes,  biscuits. 

Birses ,  bristles. 

Ban,  to  swear,  to  curse. 

Bit,  a  crisis,  the  nick  of  time 

Band ,  bond. 

Bizz ,  buzz,  bustle. 

Earths,  beats. 

Bizzard-gled,  buzzard,  kite 

Bannock ,  a  cake. 

Blad,  a  liberal  portion. 

Bardie ,  diminutive  of  bard. 

Blae,  blue. 

Bare  jit,  barefoot. 

Blastie,  a  shrivelled  dwarf. 

Barmie ,  yeasty. 

Blastit ,  blasted,  degenerate. 

Barring,  fencing. 

Elate,  bashful. 

Batts,  botts. 

Blather ,  a  bladder. 

Baubee ,  a  halfpenny. 

Blaud,  a  slap,  an  effusion. 

Baudrons,  the  cat. 

Blaudin',  beating. 

Bauk-en’’,  beam -end. 

Blaw,  to  boast. 

Baukie-bird ,  the  bat. 

Bleert,  bleared. 

Bauks.  cross-beams. 

Blellums,  fellows. 

Bauld,  bold. 

Blether ,  nonsense. 

to  let  be,  to  give  over. 

Blethers,  follies. 

Bear,  barley. 

Bletherin,  prating,  chatting. 

Bear -meal,  barley -meal. 

Blink,  look  kindly,  gleams  an 

Beas\  vermin. 

instant. 

Beck .  courtesy. 

Blinker,  a  term  of  contempt. 

Bedeen ,  forthwith. 

Blinkin’’,  smirking. 

•  Beets,  keeps  up,  feeds,  adds  fuel 

Blinks,  glances,  twinkles. 

Beld,  bald. 

Blirt,  to  cry. 

BeW,  flower,  blossom. 

Blypes,  shreds. 

Belyve,  by  and  by. 

Blue-goivn ,  an  authorized  beg 

J3e«,  in,  inward. 

gar. 

Benlomond .  a  mountain  in 

Bluntie ,  a  sniveller. 

Dumbartonshire. 

Blatter,  the  mire  snipe. 

Benmost,  innermost. 

Bock ,  to  vomit. 

Bethankit,  grace  after  meat. 

Backed,  vomited. 

Beuk,  book. 

Boddle,  doit. 

Bicker ,  a  wooden  vessel 

Bodle ,  a  small  gold  coin. 

Bicker ,  a  short  race. 

Bogle,  goblin,  phantom. 

Bickered,  raced. 

Bole,  a  recess,  or  hole  in  the  wall 

Bickering  brattle ,  hasty  clatter. 

Bonnie ,  bonny,  handsome,  beau- 

Bickering,  racing. 

tiful. 

JS(V7.  expect,  propose. 

Boortree,  the  shrub  elder. 

Bide,  endure. 

Boost,  must  needs. 

Biel ,  a  shed. 

Botch,  an  angry  tumor. 

Bield,  a  sheltered  place,  pro- 

Bough-houghed,  bow-legged. 

tection. 

Bouk,  a  corpse. 

Bien,  comfortably. 

Bousing,  drinking. 

Big,  bigg ,  build. 

Bow-kail,  a  cabbage. 

Biggin ,  building. 

Boio't,  crooked. 

Bill,  a  bull. 

Brackens,  breckan,  fern. 

Billie,  brother,  friend,  comrade. 

Brae,  a  declivity,  the  slope  of  > 

Billies,  blades. 

hill. 

Bings,  heaps. 

Bragged,  challenged. 

Birktn-shaw,  birchen  woods. 

Braid,  broad. 

Birkie .  a  fellow. 

Braik,  a  heavy  harrow. 

Birks,  birches 

Braindg’t,  raged. 

Birring,  whirring. 

Brainge ,  to  run  rashly 

GLOSSARY.  675 


Brak',  broke. 

b'runics ,  a  bridle,  a  rude  bridle, 
a  wooden  curb  for  horses. 
Brash ,  sickness. 

Brats ,  suits. 

Brattle ,  a  race,  beating. 

Braw ,  weli  dressed,  fine. 

Brawly ,  brawlie ,  heartily. 
Braxies ,  dead  sheep. 

Breastit ,  sprung. 

Brechan ,  a  collar. 

Brce,  liquor,  barley  bree. 

Breef,  an  irresistible  spell. 
Breeks ,  breeches. 

Brent,  smooth,  bran. 

Bn’e,  brow. 

Brie,  juice,  liquid. 

Brig-,  a  bridge. 

Brisket .  the  breast. 

Brocke,  the  badger. 

Brogue ,  a  hum,  a  trick. 

Broo,  water,  liquid,  broth. 
Broose.  a  race  at  weddings. 
Brose ,  pottage. 

Brow st.  braving. 

Bruchan-b  ullers,  the  boiling  of 
the  sea  among  the  rocks  on 
the  coast  of  Buchan. 

Brugh ,  a  burgh. 

Brulzie ,  a  broil. 

Brunstane ,  brimstone 
Brunt ,  burnt. 

Brust.  burst. 

Buckskin ,  an  inhabitant  of  Vir¬ 
ginia. 

Budget ,  a  bag. 

By#\  a  blow. 

Bught ,  a  pen. 

Blightin'  time,  ewe-milking. 
Buirdly.  stout. 

Bum.  to  hum  as  a  bee,  to  exult. 
Bum-clock ,  a  beetle. 

Bummil ,  bungle. 

Bummler .  a  blunderer. 

Bunker ,  a  window-seat. 

Bur  dies,  wenches. 

Bure  the  gree.  bore  the  bell. 
Burnewin ,  a  blacksmith. 

Burnies .  rivulets,  a  brook. 

Burns ,  brooks. 

BmsA:,  dress. 

Buskit.  dressed,  decorated. 
Husky,  bushy. 


•Buss,  a  bush, 
without. 

an<i  6en,  throughout, 
kitchen  and  parlor. 

bztss  or  beild,  without 
bush  or  shelter. 

the  house ,  in  the  oute*’ 
room. 

Batching ,  killing. 

By,  about  it. 

By  himself,  crazy,  lunatic. 

Bye  attour,  moreover,  besides. 
By  Ice,  a  hive. 

Byre,  the  cow-house. 

Cfo’,  to  drive,  to  move. 

CaV,  or  ca’6  driven,  called, 
calved. 

Ca’  the  yoives,  drive  the  ewes. 
Caddies,  fellows. 

C’q/f,  chaff. 

Cadger,  a  pedlar. 

Cadie,  ( cadot ,)  younger  son, 
lackland,  menial. 

Caird ,  a  tinker,  a  gypsy. 

Cairn ,  a  heap  of  stones. 
Calf-ward,  a  small  enclosure 
for  calves. 

Callans ,  boys. 

Callant,  a  boy. 

Caller,  cool. 

Collet,  a  wench. 

Connie ,  gently,  easy,  calmly. 
Canniest,  wisest. 

Canny,  carefully,  thoughtfully, 
happy,  gentle,  lucky. 

Canny  throw,  gentle  twist. 

Cant,  chant,  song. 

Cantrips,  spells. 

Canty,  pleasant,  merry,  lively, 
cheerful. 

Canty-claw ,  cheerfully  scratch. 
Cap  stane,  top  stone. 

Care  na  by,  it  irks  me  not  about 
it. 

Corkin',  fretting,  gnawing,  cor¬ 
roding. 

Carle,  carlie,  an  old  man. 
Carlines ,  old  women. 

Carritch ,  the  catechism. 

Cartes,  cards. 

Cast  out ,  quarrel. 

Caudron ,  a  caldron. 


676  GLOSSARY. 


Cuuf.  a  calf. 

Cauk ,  chalk. 

Caul\  could ,  cold. 

Cruder,  fresh. 

Coup,  a  cup,  a  wooden  drink¬ 
ing-vessel. 

Caution ,  legal  bail. 

Cavie ,  a  hen-coop. 

Cawt,  driven. 

Cesses ,  taxes. 

Chanters ,  pipes. 

Chapman  billies ,  pedlars. 
Chaumer ,  chamber. 
dump ,  a  stroke,  a  blow. 

Cheek  for  chow ,  fat-faced. 

Cheep ,  chirping,  to  chirp. 
Chicken-cavie ,  a  hen-coop. 
Chiels .  lads. 

Chimla ,  chimney. 

Cluttering,  chattering. 

Chockin,  choking. 

Chow,  the  jowl. 

Clanhan,  village. 

Claclian  yill ,  village  ale 
Claith,  cloth. 

Claivers  and  haivers ,  merry 
nonsense. 

Clarkit ,  kept  accounts. 

Clash,  gossip. 

Clatter,  talk,  idle  stories. 
Claught,  clutched,  snatched  at. 
Oaughtin\  catching. 

Claukie,  a  blow. 

Claut,  a  lump. 

Claut,  to  clutch. 

Clautet,  scraped. 

Clavers,  babblings. 

Claymore,  a  sword. 
deckin'.  brood. 
deed,  to  clothe. 

Cleeding ,  clothing. 
deeds,  clothes. 

Cleek.  to  catch. 
deekit,  linked. 

Clegs,  gadflies. 

Clink .  money. 
dinking,  sitting. 

CUnkumbell ,  bellringer,  beadle. 
Ctfps,  wool-shears. 
Clish-ma-clavers ,  talk,  palaver. 
Clock,  to  hatch,  a  beetle. 
Clocking,  breeding. 

Cloot,  foot,  hoof. 


Clootie ,  Satan. 

Clour ,  a  swelling  after  a  blow. 
Clours,  blows. 

Clout,  a  patch. 

Ch<«/,  a  cloud. 

Coble,  a  fishing-boat. 

Cock ,  a  mark. 

Cockernony,  a  lock  of  hair  tied 
on  a  girl's  head,  a  cap. 

Cod,  a  pillow. 

Coft,  bought. 

Cog ,  a  pail,  wooden  vessel. 
Coggie,  a  vessel. 

Coggie  fou,  a  bowl  full. 

Cogs  o’  brose ,  pails  of  pottage. 
Coila ,  from  Kyle,  a  district  of 
Ayrshire. 

Collie ,  a  cur. 

Collie  shangie ,  contention. 
Commaun ,  command. 

Convener ,  principal  craftsman 
in  a  Scottish  guild. 

Cood ,  the  cud. 

Coof,  a  fool. 

Cooleit ,  suddenly  vanished. 
Coost ,  cast  off. 

Cooser ,  a  stallion. 

Coot,  the  ankle,  or  foot. 

Cootie ,  a  foot-pail. 

Cootie,  feather-legged. 

Corbies ,  ravens. 

Core,  corps,  party,  clan. 

Cour,  to  stoop. 

Couthie ,  agreeably,  loving, 

kindly. 

Coroe,  to  dock,  to  lop. 

Coroe,  a  fright. 

Colop,  to  barter,  to  overturn,  a 
gang. 

Coropit,  tumbled  over. 

Cowrin,  cowering. 

Corote,  a  colt. 

Cozie,  quietly. 

Cozie  biel,  a  snug  shelter. 
Crabbit,  fretful. 

Crack,  chat,  speech,  conver¬ 
sation. 

Crackin  crouse ,  talking  briskly 
Craft ,  or  croft ,  a  field. 

Craig ,  the  neck. 

Craigie,  the  throat. 

Craiks,  landrails. 
dambo-clink ,  rhymes. 


GLOSSARY. 


Crank ,  the  noise  of  an  un  greased 
wheel. 

Crankous ,  fretful. 

Cranreuch ,  hoar-frost. 

Crap-s ,  crop-s. 

Craw,  a  crow  or  rook ;  the  crow 
of  a  cook. 

Crazed ,  worn  out. 

Creel,  a  basket. 

Creeple-chair ,  the  stool  of  re¬ 
pentance. 

Creeshie ,  greasy. 

Crocks ,  old  ewes. 

Croods ,  the  cooings  of  the  dove. 
Croon ,  to  moan,  to  roar. 
Crooning ,  humming. 

Crouchie ,  crook-backed. 

Crouse  and  canty ,  merry  and 
happy. 

Crow  die,  porridge. 

Crowdie-time ,  bi’eakfast. 
Growlin'1 ,  crawling. 

Crummock,  a  cow  with  crooked 
horns,  a  rod,  short  stick. 
Crump,  crisp. 

Crunt,  a  dint. 

Cuifs,  fools. 

Cuist,  to  cast. 

Curch ,  a  woman’s  cap. 

Curler,  a  player  at  curling  (a 
game  on  ice). 

Cwrmurring,  murmuring. 
Curpin,  the  rear. 

Curple ,  the  rump. 

Cushat,  the  wood-pigeon. 

Cutty,  short. 

Cutty-sark,  a  short  shift 

Caddie,  a  father. 

Daez't,  stupefied,  deprived  of 
vigor. 

Daffin,  merriment,  sporting, 
folly. 

Daft,  insane,  mad,  foolish. 
Bails,  portions  of  food. 
Daimen-icker,  an  ear  of  corn ; 
now  and  then. 

Dainty ,  pleasant,  good-hu¬ 
mored. 

Dales,  plains,  valleys. 

Damtes,  dames,  ladies. 

D — d  hact ,  devil  a  bit. 

Dandered ,  wandered. 


677 

Dang,  to  beat. 

Danton,  to  daunt. 

Darklins ,  without  light. 

Baud,  to  bespatter  or  abuse. 
Daudiri1,  beating. 

Bauds,  hunks. 

Daunton,  to  frighten. 
Dauntonly,  fearlessly. 

Daur.  to  dare. 

Daurk,  a  day’s  work. 

Daut ,  to  caress. 

Daw' ,  dawn. 

Dawd,  or  daut,  a  large  piece. 
Dawin ,  dawing. 

Dawtingly.  caressingly 
Dawtit,  dawtet,  petted,  ca¬ 
ressed. 

Dead,  death. 

Dearthfu1 ,  dear. 

Deave,  to  deafen. 

Deep-lairing ,  sinking. 

Deil  haet ,  nothing. 

Deleret ,  delirious. 

Den,  a  dingle. 

Dens,  groves. 

Deuks ,  ducks. 

Bevel,  a  blow. 

Devil's  picture-books,  cards. 
Dight ,  to  wipe,  winnowed. 
Dighting ,  winnowing. 

Dike,  dyke,  a  wall,  an  enclos¬ 
ure. 

Dimpl't,  eddied. 

Din,  dun,  dark,  swarthy. 

Dine,  sunset. 

Ding ,  be  beaten,  knocked. 
Dink,  lady-like. 

Dinted ,  smitten. 

Dirl,  to  vibrate. 

Dizzen ,  a  dozen. 

Dochter ,  daughter. 

Doited ,  stupid,  doting,  stupe¬ 
fied. 

Doited  lear,  stupid  lore. 
Dandled,  dandled. 

Donnie,  mischievous,  unlucky. 
Dools,  sorrows,  grief. 

Dorty,  sulky. 

Douce ,  grave,  wise,  sober, 
serious. 

Doucely ,  wisely. 

Dought,  could. 

Doup,  backside. 


GLOSSARY. 


678 

Dour  and  din ,  obstinate,  harsh 
and  noisy. 

Doure ,  obdurate,  stern,  un¬ 
sparing.  t 
Dow ,  can. 

Dowff ,  stupid,  spent,  dull. 
Dowie,  sorrowful,  sad,  droop¬ 
ing,  melancholy,  sadly. 
Downa ,  unable,  cannot. 

Doyl't,  stupid. 

Doyiin',  walking  stupidly. 
Dozen'd ,  stupefied. 

Drants ,  long  prayers. 

Drap,  a  drop. 

Draunting,  drawling. 

Dree,  to  suffer. 

Dreep.  to  ooze  or  drip. 

Dreigh ,  tedious. 

Driddle ,  to  creep,  play. 
Droddum ,  the  breech. 

Drookit ,  drenched,  wet. 

Droop  rumpl't ,  thin-flanked. 
Drouk ,  wet. 

Drucken ,  drunk,  drunken. 
Drunt ,  a  pet. 

Drumlie ,  troubled,  clouded, 
muddy. 

Drummock ,  meal  aOd  water. 

a  pool,  a  puddle. 

Duddie ,  ragged. 

Daddies,  suits  of  clothes 
Duds ,  clothes. 

Dung,  jaded. 

Dunied ,  throbbed. 

Dunts ,  blows. 

Dush,  to  push  as  a  ram. 

Dyvors,  bankrupts. 

Earn,  an  eagle. 

-Z?e,  een,  eye,  eyes. 

Eerie,  frightened,  alarmed,  fear¬ 
ful,  awe-inspiring. 

-Ecn'e  swither ,  dismal  hesitation. 
Eild,  old  age. 

Elbucks  wheep,  elbows  fly. 
Eldritch,  frightful,  unearthly, 
elfish. 

Eller,  elder. 

Embro\  Edinburgh. 

Eneuch ,  enough. 

Engine ,  temper,  genius. 
Envious  buckles ,  crabbed  fel¬ 
lows. 


endeavor. 

Evendown,  downright. 
Evermair,  evermore. 

Eydent ,  diligent. 

Pa’,  lot,  fate,  get,  attempt. 
Fa'n,  fallen.  * 

Pa’s,  has  a  right ;  water¬ 
falls. 

Faddom't ,  fathomed. 

Fae,  a  foe. 

Faem,  foam. 

Faiket,  spared. 

Fain,  glad,  fond. 

Fainness,  rapture. 

Fairin'1,  a  reward. 

Fair-strae ,  chance-medley. 
Fallow ,  fellow. 

Fand,  fond. 

Farls,  cakes. 

Pas/i,  trouble. 

Fashious,  troublesome. 

Fastern  e'en,  the  eve  of  Shrove 
Tuesday. 

Fatt'rels,  ribbon-ends. 

Faught,  fight. 

Faidd,  a  fold,  to  fold. 

Faulding ,  folding. 

Fause ,  false. 

Faut,  fault. 

Fautor,  a  culprit. 

Fawsont,  handsome,  seemly, 
decent. 

Feal,  loyal,  steadfast;  a  field. 
Feat,  trim. 

Fecht ,  a  fight ;  strained. 
Fechtin ’,  fighting. 

P?c&,  moot,  consideration 
Fecket,  a  waistcoat. 

Feckfu ',  large,  stout. 

Feckless ,  feeble,  puny,  weak. 
Feckly,  mostly. 

Fee,  to  hire,  wages. 

Feg,  a  fig. 

Feide,  a  feud. 

Feint,  deuce,  deil-a-bit. 

Fell,  biting,  keen. 

Felled,  killed. 

Felly,  relentless. 

Fen,  come  on. 

Fend,  to  provide  for. 

Fen',  shift. 

Ferly-ie,  wonder. 


I 


GLOSSARY.  G79 


Fetch ,  to  pull  by  fits,  intermit¬ 
tently. 

Fey ,  predestined,  doomed. 
Fidge ,  to  shrug,  to  fidget. 
Fidge  fu'  fain,  hug  herself. 
Pidgin?  fain,  excitedly  eager. 
Fiel,  soft. 

Fient  haet ,  no  one. 

Fier,  sound,  healthy. 

Fiere ,  a  companion. 

Fight  and  fen ,  to  make  shift. 
Fish-creel ,  a  basket. 

Fissle ,  to  fidget. 

F/t,  a  foot. 

Fitted ,  suited. 

Fittie-lan ,  the  nearer  horse  of 
the  hindmost  pair  in  the 
plough. 

Ftae,  a  flea. 

Flaffan ,  fluttering. 

Flannen ,  flannel. 

Fleech ,  to  supplicate  in  a  flat¬ 
tering  manner. 

Fleechin ’,  wheedling. 

Fleesh ,  fleece. 

Fteg-,  to  kick. 

Flether ,  to  decoy  by  fair  words. 
Fletherin flattering. 

Flewit ,  a  smart  blow. 

Fley,  affright. 

Fleifd ,  frightened,  afraid. 
Flichterin\  fluttering. 

Flinders ,  splinters. 

Flihgin-tree ,  a  flail. 

Flisk ,  to  fret  at  the  yoke. 
Flis/cit,  fretted. 

Ftit,  to  move. 

Flitter ?  to  flutter. 

Flunkie ,  a  servant  in  livery. 
Flyte ,  to  scold. 

Fodgel ,  plump. 

Fog-,  di-y  moss. 

Foggage ,  material  for  nests. 
Foor,  went. 

Foord,  a  ford. 

Forbears ,  ancestors,  forefathers. 
Forbye ,  besides. 

Forfairn ,  distressed,  enfeebled. 
Forfoughten ,  fatigued. 
Forgat/ier ,  encounter,  to  meet. 
Forjiskit ,  jaded. 

Forrit ,  forward. 

Fother ,  fodder. 

vol.  ir.  22 


Fow,  drunk,  mellow 
Fo  ughten ,  worried 
Foumart ,  a  weasel. 

Foursome ,  four  (handed). 

Fouth ,  abundance. 

Fozo,  a  bushel,  also  a  pitch- 
fork. 

Frae,  from. 

Freath,  froth. 

Fremit,  estranged. 

Fa’,  full. 

Fuds,  tails. 

Fw#\  to  blow  intermittently. 
Fujpt ,  s'moked. 

Fur-akin,  plough-horse. 

Farm ,  a  form. 

Furr ,  a  ditch. 

Furrs ,  furrows. 

Fusionless ,  tasteless,  u seles® 
Fyke,  shrug,  fret. 

Fyte,  to  soil,  to  dirty. 

Fyt’t,  soiled,  dirtied. 

Gaft,  a  mouth. 

Gaberlunzie ,  a  wallet. 

Gafts,  talk,  mouths. 

Gadsman,  a  ploughboy. 

Gae,  to  go. 

Gaed,  went. 

Gaels ,  ways,  roads. 

’  Gain ,  towards. 

Gairs,  showy  ornaments. 

Ga/t,  way. 

Gane,  gone. 

Gang ,  to  go,  to  walk. 

Gangrel ,  a  vagrant. 

Gar,  make. 

Gars,  makes. 

Gar’t,  made. 

Garten ,  garters. 

Gash,  sagacious,  sensible,  talk¬ 
ative. 

Gash  in',  conversing. 

Gat,  got. 

Gate,  road,  way. 

Gaucy,  jolly,  plump,  fat. 

Gaud ,  a  plough. 

Gaudsman,  a  ploughman. 
Gaun,  going. 

Gaunt ed,  yawned. 

Gawky ,  half-witted,  foolish. 
Gaylies ,  pretty  well. 

Gear,  goods,  wealth,  money 


680  GLOSSARY. 


Geek,  to  sport,  to  mock. 

Geds,  pipes,  pikes. 

Genty ,  elegantly,  slim. 

Geordie ,  a  guinea. 

Get ,  a  child 
Gie ,  to  give. 

Gied,  gave. 

Glen,  given,  have  given. 

Gif,  if. 

Giga,  a  violin. 

Giglets,  mocking  children. 
Gillie,  a  gill. 

Gilpey ,  a  young  girl. 
Gimmer-pets ,  young  ewes. 

Gin,  if,  towards. 

Gipsey ,  a  young  girl. 

Girdle ,  a  griddle,  also  a  girder 
or  rafter. 

Girn,  to  grin. 

Girnin ',  grinning. 

Gin ,  a  hoop. 

Gizz,  a  periwig. 

Glaikit ,  giddy,  idle,  thought¬ 
less,  inattentive. 

Glaive ,  a  sword. 

Glaizie,  glittering,  smooth,  like 
glass. 

Glamour,  necromancy. 
Glaumed,  grasped,  snatched 
Gled,  a  kite,  a  hawk. 

Gleg,  or  gleck,  sharp,  quick. 
Gleib,  a  piece,  a  portion. 

Gley ,  a  squint,  to  squint. 
Glib-gabbet ,  ready-tongued. 
Glint ,  to  peep,  pass  quickly. 
Glinted,  passed  quickly. 
Glintin'1,  flashing. 

Gleamin'1,  twilight. 

Glower,  to  stare,  to  look. 
Glower  in ',  staring. 

Glunch ,  to  frown. 

Goavan ,  moving  stupidly.,  walk¬ 
ing  aimlessly. 

Gor-cocks,  moor-cocks. 

Gowan,  the  daisy. 

Gowanny,  daisied. 

Gowd,  gold. 

Gowdspink,  the  goldfinch. 
Gowf,  the  game  of  golf. 
Gowff'd,  struck. 

Gowk,  a  fool. 

Goivl,  to  howl. 

Graff,  grave. 


Graip,  a  fork  ;  to  grope. 
Graiped ,  groped. 

Graith,  dress,  attire,  harness, 
armor,  implements,  gear. 
Grane,  a  grain ;  to  groan. 
Graned ,  groaned. 

Grat ,  wept. 

Great,  intimate. 

Gree,  to  agree. 

Gree,  palm,  superiority,  su¬ 
premacy. 

Greet ,  to  shed  tears  ;  agreed. 
Greetin',  weeping,  crying. 
Grien,  to  long. 

Griens,  longs. 

Grieves ,  overseers. 

Grippet,  caught,  seized. 

Groat,  to  play  a  losing  game. 
Grousome,  greusome,  gnm, 
loathsome. 

Grozet ,  a  gooseberry. 

Grumph,  a  grunt. 

Grumphie,  the  pig. 

Gruntle ,  the  mouth. 

Grunzie ,  pig-mouth, 

Grushie,  thick  ;  of  thriving 
growth. 

Grutten ,  wept. 

Gude ,  God. 

Glide,  guid,  good. 

Guid  e'en,  good  evening. 

Gully,  a  clasp-knife. 

Gulravage,  confusion. 

Gumlie  dubs,  muddy  ponds. 
Gumlie  jaups,  muddy  waves. 
Gumption,  cleverness. 

Gusty ,  tasteful. 

Gusty  sucker ,  savory  sugar. 
Gutcher ,  grandsire. 

Gutty,  gouty. 

Ha',  hall. 

Haddi-n ',  habitation. 

Hue,  to  have. 

Haen .  had. 

Haffet,  the  cheek. 

Hu  ff  ins ,  half. 

Ha'  folk,  kitchen-people. 
Haggis,  a  pudding  madj  in  the 
stomach  of  a  sheep 
Haggs,  mosses. 

Hain,  spare,  to  save. 
Hain'd-rig,  saved  ridge. 


GLOSSARY.  681 


Haiti  saved. 

Hair'st ,  harvest. 

Hairum  sr.arum ,  heedless. 
Haith ,  Faith,  —  a  petty  oath. 
Haivers ,  nonsense. 

Hal',  hold. 

Hale ,  sound. 

Hallan ,  a  porch,  a  door. 

HaUan  tn  ,  the  doorway. 
Hallions ,  clowns. 

Hallowe'en ,  All-hallows  Eve, 
Oct.  31st. 

Haly ,  holy.  * 

Hame ,  home. 

Han',  hand. 

Hankers ,  fumbles. 

Hansel ,  newly  gained 
.Hap,  cover,  wrap,  covering. 
Happer,  a  hopper. 

Happing ,  hopping. 
Hap-shackled ,  foot-tied. 

Harkit ,  hearkened. 

Ham,  huckaback. 

Harrow-taks ,  a  dung-fork. 
Har'st,  harvest. 

Hash,  a  rough  fellow. 
Haslock-woo' ,  the  finest  wool. 
Hast.it,  hastened. 

Haud,  to  keep,  to  hold. 
Haud-walecl,  chosen. 

Hauf,  half. 

Haughs,  valleys,  meadows. 
Haurlin,  peeling. 

Haurls,  drags. 

Haver  el,  a  half-witted  person. 
Havins ,  manners 
Hav'rel,  a  fool. 

Hawkie,  a  cow. 

Heal,  health,  well. 

Healsorne,  wholesome. 
lleapit,  heaped. 

Hearse,  hoarse. 

Heather,  heath. 

Hecht,  offered,  promised. 
Hechtin ',  threatening. 

Heckle,  fiax-comb. 
iieeJs  gowdie ,  heels  over 

head. 

Heeze ,  to  raise. 

Heft,  haft,  the  handle. 

He  in -shinned,  thin-shinned.  (?) 
Held  the  gate,  went  on  prosper¬ 
ously 


Herd,  to  tend  flocks. 

Hern,  the  heron. 

Herriet,  despoiled. 

Herry ,  to  plunder. 

Herryment ,  plunder. 

Het,  hot. 

He  ugh,  fell. 

Heugh,  a  crag  or  precipice. 
Hilch,  to  hobble. 

Hilchin1,  halting. 

Hincheon,  the  hedgehog. 

Hind,  farm-laborer. 

Hing,  to  hang. 

Hinny,  honey. 

Hirpled,  hobbled. 

Hirples,  limps,  hobbles 
Hirplin\  limping. 

Hirsels ,  flocks. 

Histie,  dry,  chapt,  barren. 
Hitch,  a  loop. 

Hizzies,  servant  girls,  girls 
wenches. 

Hoast,  to  cough. 

Hoddin,  jogging. 

Hog  showther,  to  jostle. 
Hoggie,  a  two-year-old  sheep. 
Hoodie-craw,  the  hooded  crow 
Hoodock ,  miserly. 

Hool,  outer  skin  or  case. 

Hoolie ,  gently. 

Hoord,  a  hoard,  to  hoard. 
Hornie,  the  devil. 

Hostin',  coughing. 

Hotch,  to  shake  with  laughter. 
Hatched,  jerked  about. 

Houlet,  an  owl. 

Houp,  hope. 

Howdie,  a  midwife. 

Howe,  a  valley,  a  hollow. 
Howe-backit,  hollow-backed 
Houghmagaudie ,  fornication. 
Howff,  a  house  of  resort. 
Hoick,  to  dig. 

Howkit,  dug,  excavated. 

Hoy,  to  urge. 

Hoyse,  to  hoist. 

Hoift,  urged. 

Hoyte,  to  hobble. 

Huirding,  hoarding. 

Hunkers ,  the  hams. 

Hurcheon,  the  hedgehog. 
Hardies,  loins,  hips,  haunches 
Hushion,  a  cushion. 


GLOSSARY. 


682 

Hyte ,  mad 
I\  in. 

Icker ,  an  ear  of  corn. 

Ier-oe,  a  grandchild. 

Ilka ,  each. 

Ilka  bore ,  every  hole. 

Ill ,  unkind. 

Ill  willie ,  ill-natured. 

Ill-thief  \  the  devil. 

Ingine,  ingenuity,  genius. 
Ingle,  a  fireplace. 

Ingle-gleed ,  the  fire. 

Ingle-lowe ,  the  chimney-blaze. 
Ingle-reek ,  the  chimney-smoke. 
Pse,  I  shall,  or  will. 

Ither ,  other,  one  another. 

JaJ,  jade. 

Jads,  jades. 

Jag,  a  puncture,  to  prick. 
Jauk,  to  dally. 

Jau/cin\  dallying. 

Jauner,  prattle. 

Jaups  in  luggies ,  splashes  in 
bowls. 

Jau>,  much  talk,  coarse  rail¬ 
lery. 

Jaw ,  to  dash. 

Jee,  ajee,  ajar ,  wrong  bias. 
Jillet ,  a  jilt. 

Jimp ,  slender. 

Jimply ,  slenderly. 

Jm&,  to  steal. 

Tinker ,  a  runner,  a  wag. 

Tinkers ,  sprightly  girls. 

Jinkin',  dodging,  furtive. 

Jinks ,  dodges. 

JiVt,  to  jerk,  a  jerk. 

Jo,  dear,  joy,  darling. 

Jocteleg ,  a  knife. 

Joes,  favorites. 

Jowjfc,  to  bend,  stoop,  skulk. 

Jo  10,  a  peal. 

Jundie ,  to  push. 

Kaes,  jackdaws. 

J'a/7,  broth,  cabbage. 

Kail-runt ,  cabbage-root. 

Kane,  tribute. 

Kebbuck,  a  cheese. 

Kebbuck-heel,  cheese-riud. 
Ktbers ,  rafters. 


Keckle,  to  laugh. 

Keek,  to  look. 

Keekin,  looking. 

Keekit,  peeped. 

Keekit  ben ,  peeped  in. 

Keeks,  peeps. 

KeeJ,  a  black  or  red  lead-pencil. 
Kelpies,  mischievous  water-spir¬ 
its. 

.Ken,  to  know. 

Kennin ’,  a  small  matter. 
Kenspeckle.  easily  known. 

Ke/>,  receive.  * 

A'e£,  fleece. 

Kiaug/i,  anxiety. 

Ab7i,  to  truss  up  the  clothes. 
Kimmers,  gossips,  girls. 

Km’,  kind. 

Kind,  nature. 

Kintra,  country. 

Kintra  cooser,  cQuntry  stallion. 
Kintra-fleg,  a  country  fling. 
Kirn,  a  churn. 

Kirn,  the  harvest-supper. 
Kirsen,  to  christen. 

Kist ,  a  chest. 

Kitchens ,  relishest. 

Kittle,  difficult. 

Kittle,  to  tickle. 

Kittle-kimmer ,  a  skittish  wench 
Kittlin,  a  kitten. 

Knaggie,  bony. 
Knappen-hammers,  stone  ham 
mers. 

Knowe,  a  knoll,  a  hillock. 
Knurl,  a  dwarf. 

Knurled,  gnarled,  knotty. 
Knurlin,  a  dwarf. 

Kuittlin' ,  cuddling. 

Kye,  cows. 

Kyle,  a  district  of  Ayrshire. 
Kyte,  the  stomach,  the  belly. 
Kythe,  to  show. 

Labour,  to  thrash. 

Laddie,  diminutive  of  lad. 
Lade,  a  load. 

Lads,  lovers. 

Lag,  slow. 

Laggen,  the  angle  between  the 
side  and  bottom  of  a  wooden 
dish. 

Laigh ,  low. 


GLOSSARY.  G83 


hair,  learning. 

Lairing ,  sink,  in  snow. 

Laith ,  loath,  loth. 

Lallans ,  lowland  speech. 
Lampit ,  the  limpet. 

Lan',  land,  estate. 

Lane ,  alone. 

Lap,  wrapped. 

Latheful ,  hesitating. 

.Lace,  the  rest,  other  people. 
Laverock,  the  lark. 

Law ,  a  hill. 

Lawin ,  reckoning. 

Lawlan ,  lowland. 

Lay ,  or  ie?/,  pasture-ground. 
Lays,  fields. 

LeaZ,  true. 

Lear,  learning. 

Lea-rig ,  a  grassy  ridge. 

Lee,  a  lie. 

Lee ,  lonely. 

Lee-lang ,  live-long. 

Lee-some ,  pleasant. 

Leeze,  blessings. 

Leeze  we  on,  my  delight  is  in, 
commend  me  to,  dear  to 
me. 

Leister ,  a  fish-spear. 

Leuk ,  a  look,  to  look. 

Libbet ,  emasculated. 

Lick,  a  blow. 

Lickit ,  beaten. 

Lieve,  willingly. 

Lift ,  the  sky,  firmament. 
Lightly ,  slight,  to  undervalue. 
Lift,  a  ballad,  a  tuue,  to  ring, 
to  sing. 

Limmer ,  a  mistress. 

Link,  to  trip  along. 

Linkin',  tumbling. 

Linkii,  fell  to. 

Linn,  a  waterfall,  cascade. 
Lirtf,  flax. 

Linties,  linnets. 

Lint-white,  flaxen. 

Lintwhites,  linnets. 

Lint  was  i'  the  bell,  flax  was  in 
flower. 

Lippened,  trusted. 

Loan,  milking-yard. 

Loc/i,  a  lake,  inlet  of  the  sea. 
Loo/-,  the  palm. 

Loons ,  rascals. 


Loot,  let. 

Looves,  palms. 

Loun,  a  fellow,  a  ragamuffin. 
Lowe,  fire,  flame. 

Lowin',  blazing,  flaming. 
Lowin'  heugh,  flaming  hollow 
Loivp,  or  loup,  to  leap. 

Lowrie,  abbreviate  of  Lawrence. 
Lowsed,  loosed. 

Lug ,  the  ear. 

Lugget  caup,  eared  dishes. 
Luggies,  dishes. 

Lum ,  the  chimney. 

Lunt ,  to  smoke. 

Luntin ’,  smoking. 

Lyart,  gray. 

Lyart  haffets,  gray  temples. 
Mae ,  more. 

Mailen,  a  farm,  an  estate. 
Mair,  more. 

Maist,  most. 

MaUy,  Molly. 

Mang,  among. 

Manse,  the  parsonage  house 
Marled,  checkered. 

Mar's  year,  the  year  1715. 
Mashlum ,  mixed  corn. 

Mask,  to  mash,  to  infuse. 
Maskin'  pat ,  a  teapot. 

Maud,  a  shepherd’s  plaid. 
Maun ,  must. 

Maunna ,  may  not. 

Maukin,  the  hare. 

Maut ,  malt. 

Mavis,  the  thrush. 

Maw,  mow. 

Mawin,  mowing. 

Mawn,  mown. 

Metre,  a  mare. 

Meikle,  much. 

fielder,  corn  sent  to  be  ground 
Mell,  to  meddle,  associate. 
Melvie,  to  soil  with  meal. 

Men',  mend,  to  amend. 

Mense ,  civility,  discretion. 
Menseless,  senseless. 

Mercies,  entertainment. 

Merle ,  the  blackbird. 

Mess  John,  a  clergyman,  the 
parish  priest. 

Messan,  a  cur. 

Messin ,  a  small  dog. 


684  GL  OSSAE  Y. 


Midden ,  a  dunghill. 

Midge ,  a  gnat. 

Mim ,  pi-imly. 

Mim-mou’d ,  prim-mouthed. 
Mm’,  mind,  resemblance. 

Mind ,  to  remember. 

Minnie ,  mother. 

Mirk,  darkness. 

Mirkest ,  darkest. 

Misca'd ,  abused. 

Mischanter ,  an  accident. 
Misleared ,  mischievous,  un¬ 
mannerly. 

Mither ,  mother. 

Mixtie  maxtie,  mingled. 

Moil ,  labor. 

Mo  ist  if  y,  to  moisten. 

Mony ,  many. 

Mools ,  the  dust,  clods. 

Moop ,  mump. 

Morn ,  the  next  day,  to-morrow. 
Mot,  a  mark. 

Motty ,  full  of  motes. 

Mold,  mouth. 

Moudieworts ,  moles. 

Muckle ,  much,  big,  great. 

Muir ,  a  moor. 

Muses'1  stank ,  Helicon. 

Musie ,  diminutive  of  Muse. 
Muslin  kail ,  oatmeal  gruel. 
Mutchin ,  a  measure  of  nearly  a 
pint. 

MyseP,  myself. 

Mystic  knot ,  conclave  of  gos¬ 
sips. 

iVa,  or  nae,  no. 

Naething ,  naithing ,  nothing. 
Naig,  a  horse. 

Nane,  none. 

Nappy ,  ale ;  to  be  tipsy. 

Neist,  next. 

Neuk,  corner,  nook. 

Nickan,  cutting. 

Nicket ,  cut  off. 

Nicks ,  cuts. 

Nieve ,  hand,  fist. 

Nievefid ,  a  handful. 

Nieves ,  hands,  fists. 

Niffer ,  to  exchange. 

Niger ,  a  negro. 
iV<7s,  nuts. 

Nocht,  nothing. 


Norland ,  belonging  to  the 
north. 

Nowt ,  nowte ,  bullocks,  cattle. 
O’,  of. 

Ochels ,  name  of  mountains. 
O'er  word,  burden  of  her  song. 
Ony,  any. 

O/iy  g-aie,  any  way. 

Or,  ere. 

Orra-duddies ,  superfluous 
clothes. 

O’  of  it. 

Oughtlins ,  at  all. 

Oughtlins  douser ,  any  soberer. 
Ourie,  drooping. 

Outcast ,  a  quarrel. 

Outler  quey ,  an  unhoused  cow. 
Outlers,  outliers ,  cattle  not 
housed. 

Out-ower ,  over,  across. 

Ower,  over. 

Owrehip ,  a  way  of  fetching  a 
blow  with  a  hammer  over 
the  arm. 

Pack ,  intimate ;  twelve  stone  of 
wool. 

PaidVt ,  waded. 

Painch ,  the  stomach ;  small 
guts. 

Paitrick ,  a  partridge. 

Pangs ,  crams. 

Parle ,  speech. 

Parr  itch,  porridge. 

Pattle ,  or  pettle,  a  stick  for 
cleaning  the  plough. 
Paughty,  haughty,  proud. 
Pauley,  or pawkie,  sly,  cunning. 
PayH,  paid,  beat. 

PecA,  to  breathe  short. 

Pechan,  the  belly. 

Peckin' ,  panting. 

Penny-fee,  wages. 
Penny-wheep,  small  beer. 
Philibeg ,  the  kilt. 

Phrasin',  cajoling. 

Pibroch ,  Celtic  war-song. 

Pickle,  a  few,  a  small  quantity 
Piles,  grains,  particles. 

Pine,  pain,  uneasiness. 
Pint-stoup,  a  flagon. 

Pit,  to  put. 


GLOSSARY.  685 


Placads ,  cheers. 

Vlack ,  a  doit,  coin,  penny. 
Plackless ,  penniless. 

Plaid,  an  outer  loose  garment. 
Platie ,  diminutive  of  plate. 

P/ca,  a  quarrel. 

Plew ,  or  pie  ugh,  a  plough. 
Plishkie ,  a  trick. 

Pliver ,  the  plover. 

Pfo£,  offence,  trick. 

Poc&,  a  bag,  a  small  sack. 

Poind ,  to  disti’ain. 

Poortith ,  poverty. 

Posie,  a  nosegay,  a  garland. 
Pom,  to  pull. 

Pouk,  to  pluck. 

Poussie  whiddin ,  hare  scud¬ 
ding. 

Pouts,  poults. 

Poio,  the  head. 

Pree,  to  taste. 

Preef,  or  prief,  proof. 

Preen,  a  pin. 

Prent,  to  print,  printing. 

Pried,  tasted.  .* 

Prig-,  to  cheapen. 

Priggin,  haggling. 

Primsie,  demure. 

Propone,  propound,  to  lay  down. 
Pm’,  to  pull. 

Paddock  stools,  toadstools. 

Pair,  poor. 

Punch,  pound. 

Pussie,  the  hare. 

Pyet ,  the  magpie. 

Pyke,  to  pick. 

Pyle ,  a  single  grain. 

Quak,  to  quake ;  cry  of  a  duck. 
Quat,  to  quit. 

Quean,  a  wench. 

Quey,  a  cow  one  or  two  years 
old. 

Quo,  quoth,  said. 

Ragweed,  herb  ragwort. 
Raibles,  rattles. 

Rair ,  roar. 

Pairin'’,  roaring. 

Raize,  to  excite. 

Ramfeezled,  overspent. 
Ram-stam,  headlong,  thought¬ 
less. 


Randie,  sturdy. 

Random-splore,  a  frolic. 
Ranting ,  romping. 

Rantin  Men ,  noisy  harvest- 
home. 

Rap,  or  rape ,  a  rope. 

Raploch ,  coarse. 

Rash,  a  rush. 

Ration,  a  rat. 

Raucle,  stout. 

Raucle  carlin ,  stout  beldam . 
Raught ,  reached. 

Raw,  a  row. 

Rax,  to  stretch. 

Raxed ,  stretched. 

Raxing,  stretching. 

Reamed ,  foamed. 

Reaming  swats,  foaming  ale. 
Reams ,  foams,  cream. 

Reave,  to  take  by  force. 

Reck,  to  heed. 

Rede,  advise,  warn,  told. 

Ree,  half  drunk. 

Reek,  smoke,  froth,  mist. 
Reekit ,  smoked. 

Reek'd  duds,  smoked  clothes. 
Reestit  giz,  withered  hair. 

Reft  and  clouted,  broken  and 
patched. 

Re  if ,  robbery. 

Reif -randies,  thief-beggars. 
Remead ,  remedy,  help. 
Reslricked,  restricted. 

Rew,  to  relent,  or  repent. 
Rickies,  ricks. 

Rig,  a  ridge. 

Riggin,  a  roof. 

Ringwoodie ,  gaunt. 

Rink ,  proper  line. 

Rin,  to  run,  to  melt. 

Ripp,  a  handful. 

Ripple,  to  shake. 

Riskit,  a  wrenching  noise. 

Rive ,  to  burst. 

Rives,  riv'st,  tears. 

Rock,  a  distaff. 

Rockin',  spinning  on  the  distaff 
Roon,  a  round,  a  paring. 
Roopit,  rancous. 

Roose,  to  praise,  flatter. 
Roosed,  praised. 

Roiv,  to  roll. 

Rowt,  rolled. 


686  GLOSSARY. 


Rowte ,  to  low,  to  bellow. 

Rowth ,  abundance. 

Rowthie ,  well-stored  bouse. 
Rowling ,  lowing. 

Rozet ,  rosin. 

Run  deils ,  run  wild. 

Rung ,  a  cudgel,  bludgeon. 
Rankled ,  wrinkled. 

Runt,  stalk,  cabbage-stem. 
Runted ,  stunted. 

Rustic  reed ,  finger. 

Ruth,  sorrow,  a  woman’s  name. 
Ryke,  reach. 

Sabbin,  sobbing. 

<Sae,  so. 

<Sa/i,  soft. 

(SarV,  serve. 

Sairly,  sorely. 

Sair't,  served. 

«Sfo#,  shall. 
jSto’r,  savor. 

Sarks,  shirts. 

Saugh,  the  willow. 

Saul,  the  soul. 

Saumont ,  salmon. 
Saumont-coble ,  salmon-boat. 
Saunt,  saint. 

Sa.ut,  salt. 

Sautet,  salted. 

Sax,  six. 

Scaith,  or  skaith,  harm,  hurt, 
damage,  danger. 

Scar,  to  scare. 

Scaud,  to  scold. 

Scaur,  a  cliff. 

Scaur,  easily  scared. 

Scawl,  a  scolding  wife. 

Scone,  a  cake. 

Sconner,  are  nauseated. 

Screed ;  rent. 

Scrievin"1,  scrambling. 

Scrimp,  to  scant. 

Scrimpit ,  stinted. 

Scuds,  runs. 

Scunner,  disgust. 

Sel',  self. 

Selt,  sold. 

Seen,  skilled. 

Schachrt,  distorted. 

Shaird ,  a  fragment. 

Shangan,  a  cleft  stick. 

Shank ,  walk. 


Shaul,  shallow. 

Shavie,  a  trick. 

Shaw,  respectable. 

Shaw-s,  wood-s,  grove-s. 
Shearers,  reapers 
Sheen,  bright,  shining. 
Sheepshank ,  a  small  affair. 
Sheerly,  smartly. 

Sheugh,  a  ditch,  a  furrow,  a 
channel. 

Shiel,  a  shed. 

Skill,  shrill. 

Shog ,  to  shake. 

Shool,  a  shovel. 

Shoon,  shoes. 

Shore,  to  promise,  to  threaten. 
Shored,  offered,  promised,  men¬ 
aced. 

Shouther ,  shoulder. 

Sic,  such. 

Sicker,  certain,  sure. 

Sidelins  sklented,  obliquely  di 
rected. 

Siller,  silver,  money. 

Simmer,  summer. 

Sin1,  since. 

Sin,  son. 

Sinsyne,  since. 

Skeigh,  coy,  timorous,  high- 
mettled. 

Skellums,  wretches,  worthless 
fellows. 

Skelp,  to  beat,  to  fly,  to  trip. 
Skelpi  e-limm  e  r-s ,  young  jade-s . 
Skelp  in1,  thronging,  smacking, 
slapping,  working  briskly. 
Skinking  ware ,  thin  stuff. 
Skirl,  to  scream,  to  sing  shrilly. 
Skirled,  screamed. 

Skirlin'1  weanies ,  screaming  in¬ 
fants. 

Sklent,  to  deceive,  bent. 
Sklented,  glanced. 

Sklentin'1,  glancing. 

Skouth,  scope. 

Skreigh,  to  neigh. 

Skyrin,  shining. 

Skyte,  impulse. 

Slae ,  slow. 

Slaps,  gaps,  gates,  slops. 

Slee,  sly. 

Sleekit,  smooth. 

Slight,  knack. 


GL  OSSAE  Y.  687 


Slitldery ,  slippery. 

Sloken ,  to  slake  thirst. 

Slype ,  to  fall  over. 

Sma\  small. 

Smeddum ,  powder. 

Smeek ,  smoke. 

Smiddie ,  smithy. 

Smoor ,  to  smother. 

Smoored ,  smothered. 

Smoutie ,  smutty,  obscene, 

ugly* 

Srriytrie ,  a  heap. 

Snapper ,  to  stumble. 

Snash ,  to  abuse. 

Snaw ,  snow,  to  snow. 

Sneck ,  latch  of  a  door. 

Sned,  to  shear. 

Sneeshin ,  snuff. 

Sneeshin'  mill ,  a  snuff-box. 
sharp. 

Snellest ,  sharpest. 

Snick ,  to  latcti. 

Snick-drawing ,  trick,  contriv¬ 
ing. 

Snirtle,  to  laugh. 

Snool ,  snub,  succumb. 
Snoov't-awa ,  went  on  quietly. 
Snowk ,  to  scent  or  snuff  as  a 
dog. 

Sonsie,  sonsy , engaging,  plump, 
comely. 

Soom,  to  swim. 

Sough ,  to  sigh. 

Souple ,  flexible,  swift. 

Souple  scones,  barley  cakes 
Souter,  cobbler. 

Southron ,  English. 

Soiuens,  a  dish  made  of  sour 
oatmeal. 

Sowp ,  a  spoonful. 

Sowth,  to  con. 

Sowther,  to  solder. 

Sowthers ,  makes  up  for. 

to  tell,  to  prophesy. 
Spails ,  chips. 

Spairges ,  dashes,  asperses, 
spot. 

Spates,  speats,  floods. 

Spaul,  a  limb. 

Spavie ,  spavin. 

Spean,  to  wean. 

Speels,  climbs. 

Speer,  spier,  to  ask. 


Spell,  to  discourse. 

Spence ,  the  inner  room. 

Spiel'd,  climbed. 

Spier't,  or  speered,  inquired, 
asked. 

Spleuchan,  tobacco-pouch. 
Splore,  a  merry  meeting,  a  dis¬ 
turbance. 

Sprachled ,  clambered. 

Sprattle ,  to  scamble. 

Spring,  a  quick  air  in  music,  a 
reel. 

Sprit,  a  tough-rooted  plant, 
something  like  rushes. 
Spunk,  tinder,  a  match. 

Spunk,  a  spark. 

Spunkie,  lively. 

Spurtle ,  a  stick  used  in  making 
hasty  pudding. 

Stacker ,  to  stagger. 

Staig ,  or  staggie,  a  colt. 

Stane,  a  stone. 

Stang,  to  sting. 

Stank ,  a  pool,  morass,  or  staud 
ing  pool. 
jSftap,  stop. 

Stark,  strong,  sturdy. 

Stark,  stout,  potent. 

Starns ,  stars. 

Staumrel ,  half-witted 
St  aw,  stole,  surfeit. 

Stayest,  steepest. 

Stechin ,  stuffing. 

Steek,  close,  shut. 

Steek-s,  stitch-es. 

Steer ,  disturb,  stir,  molest. 
Steeve,  firm,  compact. 

Stell,  a  still. 

Sten-s,  bound-s,  leap-s. 

Sten't ,  reared. 

Stented,  chosen. 

Stents,  dues  of  any  kind. 

Stey,  steep. 

Stibble,  stubble. 

Stick  and  stow,  completely. 
Stile,  a  crutch,  to  halt,  a  limp. 
Stimparl ,  the  eighth  of  a 
bushel. 

Stirk ,  year  old  bullock. 

Stock,  a  root  of  colewort  or  cab¬ 
bage. 

Stoited,  tottered. 

Stoitered,  staggered 


088  GLOSSARY. 


Stook ,  a  shock. 

Stoor,  austere,  hoarse. 

Stot ,  an  ox,  a  bullock. 
Stound-s ,  ache-s,  pang-s. 
Stoups ,  jugs. 

Stoure,  dust. 

Stowlins ,  stealthily. 

Stowlins  pried,  stealthily 
kissed. 

Stown ,  stolen. 

Stoyte ,  to  totter. 

Strae,  straw. 

Strailc ,  stroke. 

Straikit ,  stroked. 

Strappan,  tall  and  strong. 
Strath ,  a  valley. 

Strathspey ,  a  lively  Highland 
tune  or  dance. 

Straught ,  straight,  upright. 
Streek ,  stretch. 

Streekit,  stretched. 

Stroan ,  to  spout. 

Strunt ,  spirits. 

Strunt j  street. 

Stud  die ,  an  anvil. 

Stumpie ,  diminutive  of  stump. 
Sturt,  molest,  turmoil. 

Sturtin ,  timorous. 

Sucker ,  sugar. 

»SW,  should. 

Sugh,  noise,  rustle,  soughs. 
Sumphs ,  fools. 

Swaird ,  sward. 

SwaWd,  swelled. 

Swank ,  stately. 

Swankies,  striplings. 

Swarf ,  to  swoon. 

Strap,  an  exchange. 

Swat,  did  sweat. 

Swatch,  a  sample. 

Swats,  ale. 

Sweer,  lazy,  averse. 

Swinge ,  to  beat. 

Swirl,  a  curve ;  swirlie,  full  of 
knots. 

Swirly,  knotty. 

Swith ,  get  away. 

Swither,  doubt,  uncertainty. 
Swoor,  swore. 

Sybow,  a  leek. 

Syne,  then,  since. 

TacA:,  a  lease. 


Tuckets ,  shoe-nails. 

2’ae,  toe. 

Taed,  a  toad. 

Tairge,  a  target ;  to  examine. 
TaA;,  to  take  ;  takin ,  taking. 
Tangs,  tongs. 

Tap,  the  top.  a  portion. 
Tapetless,  heedless. 

Tappit  hen,  a  tin  quart-meas¬ 
ure. 

Tapsalterie,  topsy-turvy. 

Targe,  to  examine. 

Tarrow,  to  murmur  at  one’s 
allowance. 

Tarry-breeks,  a  sailor. 

Tassie,  a  cup. 

Tan  Id,  told. 

Taupie ,  a  foolish,  thoughtless, 
young  girl. 

Tawie ,  that  allows  itself  peace¬ 
ably  to  be  handled. 

Tawted,  dirty,  tangled,  matted 
fleece. 

TeatS)  handfuls. 

Tedding,  spreading  after  the 
mower. 

Teen ,  vexation. 

Temper-pin,  regulating  pin. 
Tent ,  tend,  mind,  mark,  ob¬ 
serve,  give  heed  to,  care  for. 
Tentie,  heedful,  attentively 
Tentier,  more  heedful. 

Tents,  watches,  guards. 

Teug/i,  tough. 

Te uglily  dome ,  toughly  stout. 
Thack,  thatch. 

Thairms,  fiddle-strings,  catgut 
Theepit,  thatched. 

Thegither,  together. 

Thick ,  intimate,  familiar 
Thieveless ,  cold,  dry. 

Thigger ,  to  beg. 

Thir,  these. 

Thirl,  to  thrill. 

Thirled,  thrilled. 

Thole,. bear  with,  suffered,  en¬ 
dure. 

Thowe,  to  thaw,  a  thaw. 
Thowless,  feeble. 

Thrang,  thick,  much,  busy. 
Thrapple,  windpipe,  throat. 
Thrave v  twenty-four  sheaves 
Thraw,  to  turn,  to  thwart 


GLOSSARY. 


689 


Throwing,  twisting. 

Throws ,  throes. 

Threap .  assert. 

Threesome ,  three-handed. 
Thrissle ,  thistle. 

Through ,  good. 

Throu'ther ,  in  confusion. 

T hr  owes ,  thaws. 

Thrummart ,  the  polecat. 

Thuds ,  sounds,  knocks. 

ZW<,  to  it. 

Timmer ,  wood,  timber. 

Tme,  tyne,  lose,  be  lost. 
Tinkler ,  a  tinker. 

2'mJ,  lost. 

2Ynf  as  win,  lost  as  won. 

27n£  the  gate ,  lost  the  way 
27/>,  a  ram. 

2’ips,  rams. 

27V/,  to  strip. 

Tided,  rattled. 

Tidin' ,  uncovering. 

Tit  her ,  the  other. 

Tittle,  sister. 

Tittle,  to  whisper. 

Tocher ,  portion,  dowry. 
Toddlin',  purling. 

Todlin ',  tottering. 

2Ws,  foxes. 

To-fa',  nightfall. 

Toom ,  empty. 

Toomed,  emptied. 

Toom  roose,  empty  praise. 
2bss,  toast. 

Toun,  a  hamlet,  a  farm-house. 
2Wt,  the  blast  of  a  horn. 
Touzie,  shaggy. 

Touzle,  to  tear. 

Touzling,  rumpling. 

2W,  a  rope. 

Towmond .  twelvemonth. 

Toy ,  a  cap. 

Toyte,  to  move. 

Tozie,  tipsy. 

Trams ,  wagon-shafts. 

Trash  trie,  trash. 

Trews ,  trowsers. 

2Wg,  spruce. 

Trimly ,  excellently. 

Trin'le ,  a  wheel. 

Troke ,  exchange. 

Trow,  to  believe. 

Trowth ,  truth. 


Try st e,  market,  fair. 

Trysted,  appointed  ;  to  tryste,  to 
make  an  appointment. 
Try't,  tried. 

Tug  and  tow ,  hide  or  rope. 
Tulzie ,  fight,  conflict,  conten¬ 
tion. 

Twa,  two. 

TwaT ,  twelve. 

Twins,  deprives. 

Tyke,  a  dog. 

Tykes,  dogs. 

Unco,  strange. 

Unco  bang,  a  severe  stroke. 
Unco  fit,  at  a  good  pace. 

Unco  folk,  strangers. 

Unco  loon,  stranger. 

Unco  tyke,  strange  dog. 

Uncos,  news,  knowledge. 
Unfauld ,  unfold. 

Unkenned ,  unknown. 
Unscaithed,  unhurt. 

Unsnicker,  uncertain. 
Unweeting,  unknowingly. 

Upo \  upon. 

Urchin,  a  hedgehog. 

Vapour ,  bullying,  bragging. 
Vaunlie ,  elated. 

Vera,  very. 

Virl ,  a  ring  round  a  caue 
Vogie,  vain. 

Wa',  wall. 

Wab,  web. 

Wabsters,  weavers. 

Wad,  wed,  would. 

Wad,  bet,  wager,  pledge. 
Wadna,  would  not. 

Wadset,  a  mortgage. 

Wae,  woful,  sad. 

Wae  sucks.’  or  waes  me!  alas  ! 

0  the  pity ! 

Wae'est,  saddest. 

Waft,  woof. 

Waifs,  stragglers. 

Waived ,  spent. 

Wair't,  spend. 

Wale,  choice,  select. 

Walie,  huge,  jolly,  ample. 
Wallop,  to  quiver  (in  a  tether). 
Wallop  in  a  tow,  huug  in  a  rope 


690 


GLOSSARY 


Waly ,  goodly. 

Waly-neive ,  lusty  fist. 

Wame .  the  belly. 

Wanchancie,  unlucky. 

Wanner,  wander. 

Wanre.si/a’,  restless. 

Ware,  to  spend,  worn. 

Wark,  work. 

Wark-lmne ,  a  tool  to  work  with. 
Warr,  world. 

Warfocfc,  a  wizard. 

Warlock-breef, ,  a  spell. 

Warl's  gear ,  world’s  wealth. 
Warly,  worldly. 

Warran ’,  a  warrant. 

Wars/e,  wrestle,  strive  with. 

War  sled,  struggled. 

War st,  worst. 

Was  trie,  prodigality. 

Wat ,  wet. 

Water  brose ,  meal  and  water. 
Wa^/e,  a  twig,  a  wand. 

Wauble ,  to  reel. 

Waught ,  a  draught. 

Wan&,  wake. 

Waukin ,  watching. 

Wau/crife,  sleepless. 

Wanr,  to  baffle,  vanquish,  get 
the  better  of  worse. 

Wawr't,  worsted,  overcome. 
Wean,  or  iveanie ,  a  child. 
Weans,  little  ones,  children. 
Weapon,  the  throat. 

Wechts ,  corn-baskets. 

Wee,  little. 

Weet,  well. 

Weel-faured ,  well  favored. 
Weel-hain'd,  well  saved. 

Weet,  rain,  wetness. 

Weird ,  fate. 

We  ’se,  we  shall. 

Wha ,  who. 

W/ia ’s  aught  thae  duels ,  who 
are  those  fellows. 

Whailpit ,  whelped. 

Whaizle ,  wheeze. 

Whang,  cut,  strap. 

Whore ,  where. 

Whose ,  whose. 

1  Vhatt,  cut. 

Wliat-reck ,  nevertheless,  what 
matter. 

Whaup ,  the  curlew. 


Wheep .  to  fly  nimbly,  to  jerk. 
WAirf,  a  fib.  . 

Whiddin ,  hare’s  skipping. 
WAtrfs,  the  quick  motions  of 
the  hare. 

Whigmaleeries ,  whims,  fancies, 
crotchets. 

Whingin ’,  peevish. 

W/i/ns,  gorse,  furze. 
Whirligigums ,  useless  orna 
ments. 

Whisht ,  silence. 

Whitt  er,  a  hearty  draught. 
Whittle ,  a  knife. 

Whipper-in ,  an  interloper. 
Whunstane ,  a  whinstone. 

W/tn/q  whip. 

W/iy/es,  sometimes. 

Wtc&,  to  strike  a  stone  ob¬ 
liquely. 

Wie/fcer,  willow. 

Widdieful ,  contemptible,  de¬ 
serving  the  gallows. 

Widdle ,  bustle,  struggle. 
Wight,  strong. 

Wig/iter,  brisker,  stouter. 
Willie-waught ,  a  hearty  pull. 
Willy  art,  bewildered. 

Wimplin \  curling,  wheeling, 
winding,  meandering. 
WimpVt ,  wheeled. 

Win,  to  get,  to  winnow. 

W/nna,  will  not. 

W7»ninff,  winding. 
Winnock-bunker ,  window-seat 
Winnocks,  windows. 

Winsome,  goodly 
winded. 

Wintle ,  stagger. 

Winze,  an  oath. 

Wipe,  a  blow.(?) 

Wiss,  to  wish. 

Wistna,  knew  not. 

Wit,  to  know. 

Wizenetf,  withered. 

Woo’,  wool. 

Woo,  to  court,  to  make  love  to 
Woodie-y,  a  halter,  a  rope. 
Wooer-6a&s,  knots. 

Wonner,  an  intruder. 

Wo  ns,  lives,  dwells. 

Wonted ,  gone. 

Wort/?/,  worthy. 


GLOSSARY.  691 


Worset,  worsted. 

Woiv.  an  exclamation  of  won¬ 
der. 

Wrack ,  vex,  vexation. 

Wraith .  wrath. 

Wraith ,  a  spirit,  or  ghost. 
Wrong ,  wrong. 

Wreath ,  drifted  snow. 

Wad,  mad. 

Wamble ,  a  wimble. 

Wyle,  beguile. 

Wylucoat ,  undervest, 
to  blame. 

W/,  jade. 

Yau/l,  jade 


Ye,  frequentljr  used  for  thou 
Yealings ,  coevals. 

Yearns ,  eagles. 

Yefe,  milkless. 

Yerkit ,  fermented. 

Yestreen,  last  eve. 

Ye«s,  gates. 

Yeukin ,  itching. 

Yeuks ,  itches 
Y<7Z,  ale. 

Yill-caup ,  ale-pot. 

Ym/,  earth,  ground. 

Yoking  bout. 

Yont,  beyond. 

Yoices.  ewes. 

Yafe,  Christmas. 


* 


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r 


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■•^Sy*V' 

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